


A Lapse in Judgement

by meshkol (ashernorton)



Series: Two Pieces Made Whole [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, (not ironstrange), (yet), Aftercare, Agreements, Asphyxiation, BDSM, BDSM negotiation, Bondage, Breathplay, Collars, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Consensual Violence, Contracts, D&H, Degradation, Degradation & Humiliation, Desperation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dominant Tony Stark, Electricity Play, Heat play, Kneeling, M/M, No Sex, Original Tech, Pain, Painplay, Past Child Abuse, Past Poor BDSM Etiquette, Past Sexual Assault, Platonic BDSM, Proper BDSM Etiquette, Scratch Play, Stephen Strange-centric, Strapping, Subspace, Verbal Humiliation, slight praise kink, submissive Stephen Strange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashernorton/pseuds/meshkol
Summary: Stephen, the newly minted Sorcerer Supreme, is strong, powerful, and in control of his life in every micromanaged detail, because failure to do so could result in (another) cataclysmic event within the universe.  He is.  But then Stephens accepts an off-handed offer to spar from Tony Stark – a man who is Stephen’s non-magical equal, a man who Stephen barely sees outside of bi-weekly meetings and the few and far between fight against a villain – and Stark discovers Stephen’s biggest weakness, his most hateful secret that is a deeply fundamental part of Stephen’s psyche.Except instead of judgement, and horror, and disgust, Stark meets him halfway, and a lapse in judgement turns into a possibility that could change their lives forever.





	A Lapse in Judgement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clobeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clobeast/gifts), [ssironstrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssironstrange/gifts).



> This fic was written for the IronStrange Midsummer Big Bang hosted by [IronStrange HQ](https://ironstrangehq.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for putting on this bang, and I hope all you mods know that this fandom utterly adores all of you.
> 
> This fic was beaten into shape (pun absolutely intended) by my lovely, inspiring, fabulous wife [Moki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mokisaur/profile), and would not be nearly as streamlined if it wasn't for her. As English is not my first language, she made this thing into a work of art and I love you dearly for it, Moki.
> 
> The utterly phenomenal art embedded within the fic was done by the ridiculously talented [clobeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clobeast/profile). I am undeserving of your art, darling.

_One_

 

A lapse in judgement turns into the most beautiful and rewarding things in his life. 

It’s a day like any other.  He wakes up in his bedroom at the Sanctum after a nightmare, covered in a sheen of cold sweat and shuddering with residual fear, and it takes him a while to tear himself away from the dream ( _Dormammu, Thanos, dying-dying-dying, seeing everyone else dying too_ ).  Then he’s showering away the sweat and tears, dressing in comfortable clothes – or his battle robes, if it’s one of _those_ days – and plastering on the cool and collected mask he wears in front of the world.  He goes out of his room and joins said world, either fighting some punk with a relic or studying yet another tome or scroll, only stopping once the enemy is taken down or for the occasional nibble if he’s hungry.  Then once his day’s over, he relaxes over a cuppa and a medical journal (because he was a doctor first, and losing himself in medical research or studies has always been his stress relief) until he’s finally tired enough to catch a few winks of sleep before the next nightmare wakes him. 

Wash-rinse-repeat, a never-ending cycle of learning and fighting and surviving. 

He’s usually alright with the status quo, appreciating the fact that he’s alive instead of a pile of dust on an alien planet, but it’s been over a year since the _last time_ and he feels stretched thin, like the delicate pia mater that surrounds the human brain.  He’s never gone over a year before, not since he was sixteen and desperate for an escape from his home life but nevertheless under his parents’ roof, but he’s been too busy, pulled in so many directions that there’s just not enough hours in the day to attend to everything.  There just isn’t enough _time_ to strengthen himself up, and he refuses on basic principle to use the Time Stone for something so selfish. 

He’s growing desperate though, the buzzing in his head almost at a shriek and the tension of his body strong enough to keep him awake at night.  It’s starting to affect every aspect of his life, and not in a very good way.  He’s started spacing out or even dozing during meetings at AHQ, which is the last place he wants to draw attention to himself.  His usual trademark sarcasm and deadpanned wit is practically non-existent, to the point where even the usually unobservant Scott Lang has noticed.  He’s started growing careless during his castings, his sloppy spells either not working at all or having disastrous results.  Hell, he’s even started pulling back during training spars, both with his fellow sorcerers and with the various Avengers, if only to feel something besides anxiety, fear, and self-loathing. 

Stephen _hates_ that he feels like this, has _always_ felt like this, but he’s read enough studies on it to realise where it stems from. 

So he takes a day (or long weekend...or _week_ ) here and there, one or two times a year, where he can release it all in one go and then get on with his normal life.  He hates it, but at least it’s a rare, sporadic thing he is forced to deal with when it all becomes too much. 

But it’s been fourteen months, twenty-eight days, and...probably around sixteen hours since the last time, and Stephen’s never been this wound up before without releasing the tension.  He feels like a dam, strained and precarious and starting to crack, trying so hard to hold back the flood of rain and lakes and oceans but steadily getting closer to a complete structural failure. 

Honestly, he doesn’t really know what to do.  Stephen doesn’t trust very easily considering his shit childhood and the cutthroat business of the medical profession (as well as the cutthroat business that comes with the mystic arts and, eventually, becoming the Sorcerer Supreme), _and_ he had spent a good two years during his pre-med years having bad experiences in the scene.  Eventually, though, he had found a good one, someone that hit every need and earnt his trust in spades, and mercifully Dorian had been an open-for-play, his wife comfortable with Stephen and his very infrequent, non-sexual visits. 

But Dorian’s gone now, as of eleven months ago.  Stephen had only found out about six months ago, since he had been so busy with being the Master of the New York Sanctum and eventually the Sorcerer Supreme after the ordeal with Thanos, and now Stephen’s fucking terrified. 

He’s famous for a completely different reason now – fans of Tony Stark had filmed the confrontation in Greenwich Village, back when Maw had tried to take the Stone, and Stephen hadn’t been disguised.  The video had gone viral, because it was _Iron Man_ , and suddenly Stephen can’t go anywhere without someone asking for an autograph (or an introduction to other Avengers).  Stephen’s used to press and fame, but medical circles are a totally different monster than the celebrity tabloids, and he’s uncomfortable with the insane amount of scrutiny he’s under at the present moment.  Everyone in the world knows who he is, thanks to his infamy in the medical world being open source, and because of that, he has a public image to maintain now, especially since he’s consulting with the Avengers on a regular basis.  He’d had to sign the Accords, for fuck’s sake, _and_ testify at the U.N. over the war with Thanos and the existence of the magical arts on Earth, because he’s the face of their entire sect now.

Because of that, it’s not like Stephen can just walk into a dungeon and beg for a Dom to Dominate him, not without it hitting every goddamn newspaper and internet blog existing on this planet. 

Luckily for Stephen Strange, though, the lapse in judgement _does_ happen, and it changes his life completely, though it takes a while for the extent of that change to become apparent.

—

The day-like-any-other changes during his sparring session with Stark. 

Sparring with Tony Stark is a rare event, as Stark’s usually too bogged down with bureaucratic nonsense and technical bullshit to really slot out time for it (well, with anyone other than Rhodes, or when he’s visiting, Thor).  Not to mention that Stark has an admittedly warranted, healthy discomfort about magic, and since that’s the medium Stephen uses, they don’t really go out of their way to spar with each other.  Despite the insane ordeal they had gone through together in the war with Thanos, their association generally revolves around the Avengers meetings, occasional fights with a baddie somewhere in the world, and the few-and-far-between political galas that require both of their attendance.  They aren’t friends in the least, more like passing acquaintances with sporadically overlapping agendas and a singular traumatic experience forever tying them together; both of them are too occupied with their own, vastly different priorities to really invest in anything more than that. 

It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision after the bi-weekly meeting at AHQ, Stark asking if he was game since he wanted to punch something (even a magical shield) and didn’t have anyone to scrap with.  Stephen had agreed against his better judgement, figuring that he could hold off on his studies for a few hours, and he had had a very stressful few days due to a dangerous relic uncovered in China.  He had micromanaged the hell out of the dismantling process, because it had dissolved every white blood cell in a living body with one touch and they had _had_ to break the spell; because of that, he’s been twitching with desperation since the dismantling had concluded, the control he had displayed piling onto the rest of the responsibility on his shoulders. 

To be honest, he had wanted the pain of a pummelling more than a genuine spar, because at least it would’ve been _something_.  Losing a spar was the closest he could get, even if it’s not true Domination, and despite his better judgement, he had opted to what minuscule relief he could get from the overwhelming anxiety he feels. 

But Stark’s a genius for a reason, not just in science and mathematics but also in human behaviour, and all it takes is that one lapse in judgement – that agreement to spar – to change everything. 

Stephen dodges a kick to the side sloppily, his body throbbing despite the thin layer of magical protection he’s put upon himself (because getting hit by Iron Man’s suit isn’t advisable whatsoever, regardless of Stephen’s masochism), and is caught in the stomach.  He flies backwards, and without his cloak on, he hits the wall with a sickening crack, said wall fracturing and denting from the impact.  It knocks the breath clean out of him, spots dancing underneath his eyelids, and while the protection saves him any bone breaks, he still feels like he got hit by a fucking train. 

He collapses on the floor in a heap, panting heavily with physical exertion and pain, and he hates that he’s aroused by all of this, by Stark kicking him around like a ragdoll.  He’s in his robes, sans cloak, so it’s not noticeable (thank God, because Stark may be fit as fuck, but they aren’t friends and there are some things that cordial associates don’t really share), but he still pulls his legs up to his chest when Stark advances on him, already letting the nanotech return to its home in the reactor. 

“Jesus, Strange, what the fuck?” Stark says, voice tight and concerned as he kneels in front of Stephen.  Two fingers on his right hand stretch out towards his throat and Stephen can’t help but flinch away from it, not wanting Stark to check his pulse.  He knows that he could probably blame it on the exertion of their spar, but he’s too spun up now to want to risk it. 

“No, I don’t think so Doc,” Stark says in a hard voice, eyes troubled but still flinty.  “You may be the fancy doctor but you’ve also just slammed into a wall.  Either I check you over here or I’ll drag your arse to the infirmary kicking and screaming.”  The words, tone, and his expression hits Stephen in the gut, and he doesn’t realise that he’s bowing his head while sitting up a bit so he can lock his arms behind his back until he’s already done it. 

Stark seems to take it as acceptance rather than an unconscious display of submission, mercifully, and reaches out again.  His fingers are rough from years of tinkering but confident, and as he feels Stephen’s rapid and jumping heartbeat he says, “Seriously though, what the fuck?  I know we don’t train together very often, but you’re usually on top of your game.  You hurt or something?” 

Stephen tries to speak, but all that comes out is an exhale.  His mouth is bone dry and he feels faint, because he physically can’t stop presenting himself even though he so dearly wants to, and he can sense that the desperation is very close to the surface.  It’s abjectly horrifying, that he’s so close to the edge around Stark of all fucking people, and his mind is tearing itself apart as it fights between creating a portal to flee and throwing himself at Stark’s feet. 

“Strange, _talk_ ,” Stark says, and it’s absolutely a demand. 

Stephen obeys without thinking, without processing his words, replying in a hoarse whisper, “Please.” 

There’s a bloated silence, Stephen mortified by the plea, and he can’t open his eyes and raise his head to see the expression on Stark’s face.  He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for – to be hurt more, to be controlled entirely, for Stark to fuck off, or _what_ – but he can’t let this continue.  He can’t—no, he’s not _weak_ , he’s not— 

Suddenly he’s scrambling, his breaths coming out of him in harsh gasps, and he hears himself say through the ringing in his ears, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I need to go now, sorry, I’ll—”  He moves to stand up, shaking arms lifting to create a portal back to his bedroom at the Sanctum even as he tries to get to his feet, but then Stark’s _right there_ , one hand tight on Stephen’s shoulder and the other grabbing Stephen’s left hand in a solid grip. 

“Stop,” Stark says, the word spoken in a worried but insistent tone, and Stephen falls back to his knees instinctively, mind screaming in horror and self-loathing even as his arms return to his back and his chin drops to his chest. 

And then Stark breathes, “ _Oh_.” 

Stephen hears a small, almost silent whine rip itself from his throat against his will, frantic with the need to run away from this, to make Stark forget.  This isn’t what he wants, because he can’t look weak in front of a goddamn co-worker – what will Stark even think of him after this, knowing that Stephen’s just a pathetic, useless piece of rubbish underneath all the confidence and bravado and authority he exudes through his pores on a day-to-day basis?  Stark’s confidence in Stephen’s judgement will disappear; fuck, Stephen can’t let Stark _see_ him like this.  In total desperation, he tears his shoulder away from Stark’s grip and makes the signs to use the Time Stone, needing to go back and make this a non-issue, so his standing in Stark’s eyes stays intact.  Stephen has too much responsibility as the brand-new Sorcerer Supreme to lose Stark’s confidence, because Stark’s the goddamn leader of the Avengers and practically the cornerstone of the entire human race outside of the magical realm. 

But Stark doesn’t let him, both of his hands covering Stephen’s, and before Stephen can tear himself away, he hears Stark ask quietly but firmly, “How long have you been edging?” 

The question stills the terror Stephen can feel rolling in his gut, and while he’s still tense and refuses to look Stark in the eye, he feels the oppressive cloud in his head lift for a brief, but profound moment.  The question itself speaks of Stark’s familiarity with the scene, and it takes him by surprise (even though perhaps it shouldn’t, because it’s no secret that Stark has a _lot_ of experience in all things sex, which is usually a part of the dynamic).  And the way he says it is more of a command than a question, so Stephen answers before he can think of a good misdirection: “Since Thanos.” 

Stark hisses, and that’s even more surprising.  Still, the fact that he responds in what sounds like sympathy makes the cloud lift yet again, and the screaming in his head is diminishing by each passing second because if Stark _understands_ , then maybe...but no, Stephen needs Stark to forget this, to keep his confidence in Stephen, because doubt in Stephen’s ability to take control over a conflict or enemy could spell disaster in the middle of a fight.  He can’t risk that. 

But instead of trying to remove himself from Stark so he can blatantly abuse the Time Stone’s power, Stephen hears himself blurt out lowly instead, “I’m not weak, Stark.  I’m _not_.  You mustn’t think—” 

“I know that,” Stark interjects, and his tone is so sure that Stephen’s words choke off in a mixture of relief and appreciation.  Stark continues, “You’re a natural leader, and our sides work well together because of that fact.  Just because you have private...proclivities doesn’t mean that you’re incapable of doing your job.  Just means you’re human, and no one should judge you for that.” 

They’re silent for a long while, Stark’s grip on his hands loosening but not disappearing.  Stark brings their hands to Stephen’s lap, and Stephen’s grateful that Stark’s not pulling away, the light pressure on his shaking hands soothing and grounding.  The urge to run away is receding rapidly now, his mind quickly processing Stark’s words and growing calmer at Stark’s honest statement.  Even though the self-hatred and disgust is still swirling inside him, and even though every atom in his body wants to submit before he goes mad, the easy acceptance from Stark as well as the throbbing pain from the spar dims it down to a more manageable level.   

“Tell me why you’ve resisted so long,” Stark says out of the blue, the words again not a question but a demand. 

Stephen inhales, shudders, and answers quietly, “My...the only Dom I’ve trusted for the past twenty years died almost a year ago.”  Stephen hesitates, then decides his next words don’t matter; it’s no secret that the infamous ex-playboy is bisexual, so Stephen won’t get any judgement from Stark.  “He tried to stop a robbery and was shot for his trouble.  I haven’t had the time to look for another since I found out about six months ago, after going to him for help.” 

Stark’s fingers twitch against his, but he doesn’t respond for a solid minute.  Strangely, he feels Stark’s thumbs absently caress the scars on his hands, and Stephen feels grounded enough to raise his head so he can look at Stark’s face. 

He’s surprised when he suddenly finds himself locked into Stark’s gaze, those big, chocolate brown eyes focussed on Stephen as if he doesn’t see anything else.  It traps Stephen, completely and totally, both because he can’t quite read Stark’s expression and because _fuck_ is Tony Stark a handsome man. 

Stephen’s never been _completely_ gay – he has a preference for men, yes, but he was with Christine for almost a year as well.  And he’s not _blind_ – there’s a reason why Stark’s consistently voted in the top ten of the world’s sexiest men (at least he thinks so, if Rhodes’s teasing remarks are to be trusted). 

They stare at each other for a long time, brown into glasz, before Stark states frankly, “You’re pulling your punches, and you’re sloppy.  You need to sort this out, find someone who can help you, before you get someone killed.” 

Stephen flinches, then feels himself visibly puff up in anger.  “I can perform perfectly in the field despite this...this _impulse_ , Stark.  I don’t _need_ anything.” 

Stark doesn’t look at all convinced, to Stephen’s chagrin.  “Maybe not,” Stark acquiesces, though the unreadable expression on his face doesn’t change, “but I think you’re lying to yourself, and it’s dangerous.  It’s not something you can just turn off—” 

Stephen surges up, tearing his hands away and unimaginably furious, but Stark orders in a hard voice, “Down,” and Stephen’s knees buckle once again, hitting the floor hard enough to bruise. 

Stephen pants rapidly, mind buzzing with humiliation due to how quickly he had obeyed, and he’s actually quite terrified now.  Stark may be a good man, but this is still a weapon Stark can use against him in his weakest moments, when the pressure becomes too much.  Stephen is brilliant at avoiding and stiff-arming his base needs in regards to his submissive nature, but if it’s piled up ( _like now_ ), Stark could absolutely take advantage of that.  Stephen genuinely believes that Stark wouldn’t even consider it, but it’s still _there_ , a tangible possibility that grips Stephen’s heart in a vice-like grip of fear. 

He doesn’t realise that he’s hyperventilating until Stark’s hands squeeze Stephen’s, and through the gasping breaths he can hear Stark saying, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, just breathe, _breathe_ _Stephen_.”  He unconsciously matches his breathing to every word, and Stark’s deliberately slows down his repeated “ _breathe Stephen_ ” as he quickly catches on.  Stephen feels his heartbeat begin to slow, his aching lungs and throat calm down, his shivering waning, and after an indeterminable amount of time, his entire body loses its ability to stay upright, the stress and anxiety and fear and sheer _need_ completely wiping him out in seconds. 

Stark catches him and helps him lay against the floor, the cool surface soothing against his feverish skin.  Stephen takes slow, deep, almost painful breaths, eyes clenched shut as he tries to put himself together again, hating that he’s like this despite frantically clawing for his independence and authority for forty-four years.  As he struggles for some semblance of control over his traitorous body, he whispers to Stark pleadingly, “Please don’t think less of me.  I can’t hel—” 

“I won’t,” Stark hurriedly assures him, those two words easing the painful, bleeding, raw wounds in Stephen’s psyche.  “I won’t say a word, and everyone knows you’re more than capable, myself included.  It’s okay, and I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that.  It’s my fault, but I couldn’t...I didn’t want you to leave without telling you that.” 

Stephen breathes, distantly surprised that Stark’s hand is threading through his hair, and after the stress and humiliation over the past who-knows-how-long, it’s almost reminiscent of aftercare.  And, to Stephen’s surprise, it’s _helping_ , having gone through all of that in front of a near-stranger that he _does_ trust beyond all conceivable measure, considering the trials they’ve been through together.  He feels like the oily tendrils of _need_ are loosening their hold on his body and soul, and despite how horrifying this entire ordeal was, he feels _better_.  Not one-hundred percent, or anywhere even close, but _better_ , like he could sleep more than an hour a night for the first time in months. 

But the loss of Stephen’s own control in exchange for _Stark’s_ control over is a blessed relief, and his world doesn’t seem so oppressing and dark anymore even though it hadn’t been nearly enough to keep the need at bay. 

Though he genuinely doesn’t understand why he offers the information freely, Stephen hears himself ramble hoarsely, “With all the exposure in the press and on social media, I can’t exactly go out looking for someone.  And even if I could, I wouldn’t have the time to really do the negotiations and then develop that trust with a Dom, not with everything on my plate right now.  I haven’t an idea what to do, Stark.  I’ve never gone this long in between scenes before...I feel like I’m going mad.” 

Stark doesn’t respond for a long time, but then he questions, “Can I ask you something?  And if you choose to answer, which you absolutely _do not_ have to do, I’d appreciate it if you were completely honest.” 

Stephen’s heart thuds heavily in his chest, a flicker of apprehension sparking in his mind, but after everything that’s happened since the abrupt end of their spar, he doubts that anything else can possibly be worse than what’s already occurred, what Stark’s already discovered about Stephen Vincent Strange. 

“Yes,” Stephen rasps and opens his eyes, looking up at Stark. 

Stark’s watching him, that same foreign expression on his face, but his eyes are soft and unthreatening.  Something curls in Stephen’s chest, something he can’t quite place, but he waits quietly and patiently for Stark to ask his question.  Stephen knows he’ll answer it honestly, regardless of what it is; even though it wasn’t an order or a demand, he feels like just unloading some of his intensely private, hoarded thoughts on his submissive nature to another living, breathing human being will only do him good.  Bottling things up is what gets Stephen into his weak situations in the first place, and regardless of his discomfort about being _vocal_ about this topic with someone other than his Dom, he needs to let it out somehow.  If anything, Stephen hopes that it’ll lengthen the amount of time between his slips. 

Then Stark asks his question, and it’s not at all what Stephen expected: “When you submit to someone for that release, is it sexual or just general submission?” 

“I don’t—” Stephen starts, but stops before completing the sentence, because he _does_ understand what Stark’s asking.  It’s just...answering that question honestly is unfathomable, and something that Stephen’s only told one person before: Dorian, who Stephen had trusted with his mental health and physical safety (something not easily given to anyone). 

Stephen forces himself to sit up, crossing his legs and watching his shaking, scarred fingers tangle together.  He bites his lip, wanting so dearly to tell Stark to fuck off, but in the end he takes a deep breath and admits almost silently, “General.  I haven’t associated... _it_ with sex since I was nineteen.  My—Dorian, my only Dom, was married to his primary sub, and they had an agreement that he could Dominate subs that needed it as long as sex wasn’t involved.  That was exactly what I’d been looking for at the time because submission is submission, and it took the need away so I could live my life like a normal person for a while.”

Stark is silent, clearly mulling over Stephen’s response.  Stephen waits anxiously, trying to focus on breathing and staying calm until Stark asks almost hesitantly, “How long could you manage before you needed another session?” 

Stephen swallows with an audible clicking noise, his throat bone dry, before he replies, “Once or twice a year, sometimes more if I was more...proactive and _healthy_ about it.  I don’t like being like this, don’t like feeling _weak_ , so I would hold out as long as I could; eventually though, it would take over to the point where I couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone hold a scalpel steadily in surgery.  That’s when I’d go to him – I’d have to take a long weekend, sometimes an entire week if I’d waited too long, just to get it _out_ , and then go on with my life like nothing had happened.”

Again, there’s silence, and Stephen almost wants to fill it with something, words or action or anything but the heavy quiet around them.  He’s nervous, and for good reason – Stark’s the only person who knows this now, now that Dorian’s gone, because the men he had dealt with in his pre-med years (green behind the ears, young and scared and desperate and still reeling from a chaotic, abusive childhood) had never known Stephen’s name and therefore wouldn’t remember him even if Stephen was standing right in front of them.  Now everything’s out: that Stephen has this _defect_ inside of him; that Stephen is fundamentally inadequate, always pretending and faking it despite the fact that he really is a worthless, spineless, disgusting piece of—

“Breathe,” Stark says, his voice distant and far away as if it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel, but no-nonsense and commanding and _strong_.  It snaps Stephen back to reality, and he registers that he’s shaking and rocking back and forth, his hands buried in his hair and breaths sharp and loud in the silence of the room.  Stark says the word again, long and drawn out, and again Stephen subconsciously finds himself matching the cadence as Stark repeats it over and over, slowly becoming calmer and more centred as he follows Stark’s command.

As his mind comes back to him, he hears himself croak, “Stark…why are you...I don’t understand.”

Stark inhales, hands squeezing Stephen’s shoulders lightly (and Stephen doesn’t even know when he’d grasped said shoulders, his memory foggy and unclear), and then exhales in one long sound through his nose.  Then he says quietly, “Look at me.”

It is stated as a command but it’s still a request, and one that Stephen chooses to follow.  He glances up, and his vision is blurry around the edges but Stark’s face is still clear despite it, his handsome features calm and serious.

“You need it,” Stark says, so quiet that Stephen almost doesn’t catch the words. Stephen can’t help but nod, something in Stark’s eyes making him unwilling to speak; Stark just smiles, a little sardonic quirk of his lips.  He continues with an earnest seriousness, “We need you at the top of your game, which you can’t do without decompressing at least a few times a year, and it would be healthier if you did it more than that.”

Stephen opens his mouth to argue, to tell Stark that he’s not _that_ weak, that he can go significant lengths of time between his hateful needs, but Stark squeezes Stephen’s shoulders again, this time hard enough to bruise.  Stephen shudders almost violently, his body responding instinctively by going lax and pliant, feeling himself sway towards Stark until they’re almost touching torso-to-torso.  He can feel his blood swirling with heat in his abdomen, both the heady feeling of arousal _and_ the contrary burn of embarrassment due to said arousal and blatant submission.  Despite the words trying to claw their way out of his chest and the tiny corner of his mind that’s _hating_ these involuntary feelings, he keeps his mouth closed obediently, his mind and body practically humming with satisfaction.

“Good boy,” Stark says, almost absently, and Stephen hears the desperate whine behind his own closed lips in response.  Stark hums at Stephen, his fingers caressing Stephen’s shoulders lightly, and says, “If you’re...amenable, per se, this could be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

 _Oh_ , Stephen thinks, and heaves out a shaky exhale as the possibilities begin to ignite in his brain.

But before he even has a chance to really _think_ , to overthink every detail and weigh any pros and cons (and there’s not enough _time_ to respond confidently, because he’ll need _weeks_ to work this unexpected bombshell out in his head), he hears Stark say as if far away, “Don’t respond; you’re not coherent enough to make a decision right now, and I won’t force that on you.  It’s just…I’m familiar with this scene, rather familiar if I say so myself, though it’s been a long few years since I was regularly involved.  Since before Afghanistan, actually.  I still remember it though, and _fuck_ , Stephen, I trust you with my life.  It wouldn’t be even the slightest bit difficult to just…”

He trails off, averting his gaze to his hands that’re on Stephen’s shoulders, and then to the blank wall of the training room.  His hands squeeze again, but gently this time, and then they drop to his own lap, disconnecting their bodies entirely.  Stephen bites back the immediate urge to whine in protest because Tony Stark is _not_ his Dom, no matter what his purring, traitorous brain is thinking.  The last thing he needs is a base desire to take root in his mind before he has a chance to objectively think about everything that he _thinks_ Stark is offering.

 _But you can’t be objective when you need this so badly_ , a little voice in Stephen’s head murmurs.  _How’re you supposed to be logical when you’re tearing apart at the seams, every atom of your being desperate for relief?_

Then Stark huffs out a breath as if frustrated, tearing Stephen out of his disjointed and concerning thoughts, and says frankly, “Look, if we negotiated, I don’t see why we couldn’t…work something out.  It’s convenient for both of us, because we’re both dealing with the same insane issues and under the same mountain of responsibility, and if I’m being honest, I think I’ve needed the contrast of what you need for twelve fucking _years_.  If we negotiated, I think it could do us both some good.  Just…think about it?  And no one has to know about any of this, no matter what you decide, okay?”

That last addition is a relief, and Stephen can’t help but let out a little sigh before he takes a long, _long_ moment to pull himself together.  He needs to leave, to think, and regardless of what that little voice says, this brief, unexpected interlude had taken the painfully sharp edge off.  If he’s quick about it, perhaps the need will stay at a simmering level and give him enough time to make a conscious decision instead of just jumping head-first into this with Stark, if only to get some relief.  Trust in Stark or not, Stephen can’t make a decision like this lightly, because Dominating another human being can bring out the best and worst in people, and Stephen needs to be sure in his own head first.

Stephen finally finishes bottling up his need as best he can and then stands up, shaky on his feet and still shivering slightly, but his mask feels stronger than it has for months.  He looks down at Stark, who’s staring up at him with that unreadable expression back on his face, and says simply, “Alright, Stark.”

Then he turns away, creates a portal, and disappears back to his room at the New York Sanctum, leaving Stark on the floor staring after him.

 

* * *

 

_Two_

 

Stephen manages fourteen days and approximately two hours before he goes to Stark.

Nothing’s changed between them since that moment in the training room – Stark still does his thing and Stephen does his, and when the two of them are in the same room together, Stark’s eyes don’t linger on him nor does he pull Stephen to the side to ask or demand any updates.  It’s...good, actually, knowing that if Stephen decides to go his own way and suffer alone or find a different Dom, Stark will go about his life without butting into Stephen’s, not without consent.

It’s that more than anything that makes Stephen think that, on a preliminary level at least, an arrangement of sorts between them could actually work.  Of course, there’s a lot more than that: Stephen trusts Stark, enough to risk half the universe on the slim chance that Stark would follow the perfect path to victory without being told the future, and enough to risk the general privacy of the magical realm so he can join forces with the Avengers; Stark’s very brief Domination of Stephen had unwittingly pushed a few of the right buttons, just enough to mercifully give Stephen back a shard of his old self back; and honestly, Stephen finds the idea of being Dominated by the handsome and inventive Tony Stark intoxicating beyond belief.

Stephen doesn’t want sex, at least not in this situation, because there’s still too many bad memories associated with it.  He’s content with his celibacy, mostly because he’s been all but celibate since he was nineteen and it’s grown normal for him.  Stephen likes sex, but it’s never been this biological need that he’s felt compelled to do anything about, not like his submission.  Stephen associates sex with relationships after those horrific instances during pre-med, and since Stephen’s always been notorious for not having relationships except once with Christine (and even that had been shaky at best, their sexual moments rare and inconsistent due to their schedules and regular fights), sex has never been a real _thing_ in his life.  He’s fine without it, and his right hand has never failed him when he’s had the urge.

So it’s not about sex with Stark, and he doesn’t want it with him anyway; he just needs to submit to someone on rare occasion, and it’s not a bad thing that Stark’s fit as fuck, so he’ll have something handsome to look at during those moments of weakness.

All-in-all, Stark’s offer is an absolute marvel.  Of course, the negotiation period is imperative, because they might not even be compatible, but the mere possibility is tantalising.  If they _do_ end up compatible, it’ll be a perfect solution to Stephen’s issues – Stark’s in the know regarding Stephen’s abilities, so no matter where they are on the planet, Stephen can always portal to him if the need becomes too unbearable to deal with, and that’s not even bringing in the trust Stephen already has in regards to Stark.

He’s not worried about Stark running his mouth to the press or peers (though perhaps to Rhodes and Pepper, and that’s something they’ll have to talk about), because Stark’s certainly capable of being silent about big things that involve other people or secret information.  He’s not worried that Stark’s going to take advantage either, because it is no secret that Stark bends over backwards (sometimes _way_ _too much_ ) for the people he cares about or feels responsible for, which at least in a working environment includes Stephen himself.  And he knows, more than anything, that Stark will respect him, based off his easy confidence in Stephen’s abilities outside of this _and_ due to his reactions and words when he had found out about Stephen’s weakness.  Stephen doesn’t believe for a second that their working relationship, as infrequent as it is, will be awkward or uncomfortable, or that their personal lives will be affected due to their similar temperaments and beliefs.

If they can come to terms, it could be a sublime experience, without any fear of reprisal or judgement.

And that, along with the ever-increasing need he can feel in his entire body, helps him feel a little less like launching himself into space all so he can escape his weakness.

—

He stops Stark just as he’s slipping into his workshop, right after the latest meeting.

Stark’s bicep is strong and solid under his damaged fingers, and the muscle tenses in his grasp.  Stephen wants to linger, explore the musculature with a doctor’s eye because he knows the arm was regrown with Extremis and augmented with prosthetic tech, the damage from using the Infinity Gauntlet having shattered the arm beyond normal human repair.  Still, Stephen lets go almost immediately, recognising the startled look on Stark’s face as the man quickly turns in his direction.

Stark looks relieved at the sight of Stephen, who wants to apologise for surprising him but can’t manage to get out the words.  Instead of speaking himself, Stark seems to realise why Stephen’s here, and simply gives him a small quirk of his lips before motioning Stephen inside the workshop.

Stephen’s never been inside it before – not many have, as Stark’s always working on secret, advanced, dangerous tech – and he takes in the large space with curiosity.  He doesn’t understand or recognise most of the equipment but he sees workbenches and bots everywhere, pressed against walls so there’s a sizeable open space in the middle.  Stephen vaguely wonders where he develops his nanotechnology, because he’d envisioned a bunch of beakers and machines, but he doesn’t have the opportunity to take in the space more critically, as Stark leads him to a large, L-shaped desk in the corner of the room.

Stark points to a chair, which Stephen sits in with his usual impeccable posture, though Stephen’s fingers twist together in his lap in an anxious, unsure tic.  Stark eyes them but doesn’t address it, instead taking a seat in another chair and levelling a steady gaze at him.

“I’m guessing you’ve come to a decision then?” he asks, his voice even and calm to match his expression, but Stephen for the life of him can’t read what he’s thinking.

Stephen blinks slowly, swallowing past the lump in his throat in an effort to lubricate his mouth enough for speech.  He’s incredibly nervous now, staring Stark in the face, because Stephen isn’t sure if he should even speak up and tell Stark that he wants to negotiate, because for all Stephen knows, Stark’s changed his mind and will try to let him down gently.

Eventually he musters up the resolve to at least nod, and another quirk of the lips is Stark’s response.  It makes the clench of apprehension around his heart dissolve, because Stark’s eyes are speaking entire novels now: amusement, satisfaction, and what looks like _relief_.  Stephen belatedly realises that Stark’s unreadable expression is to protect himself from a potential disappointment, and Stephen suddenly understands that the need may not just be a one-way street.  _Twelve years_ , Stark had said, and Stephen can’t imagine going twelve fucking years in between scenes.  He _wishes_ he could go that long, but he’d probably just end up in a psych ward, or worse.

“Yes,” Stephen says out loud now that his stomach isn’t in knots.  “I would like to negotiate terms of this arrangement, if you would be amenable.  When are you free to bargain?  I have the next six hours free if you have a moment now.”

Stark rolls his eyes.  “I still can’t believe people talk like you do,” he drawls, but the tone is almost fond.  Before Stephen can volley back, he continues, “I was going to tinker a bit but I can put that off.  God knows I spend too much time in here anyway, and besides, it’s purely for selfish reasons.  I’m trying out prototypes for a new repulsion system and that can wait, so you’ve got me until six tomorrow morning.”

Stephen’s eyes widen slightly.  “It surely won’t take that long, Stark.”

“Tony,” Stark corrects.  “If we’re going to ‘bargain’, as you’ve called it, you should call me by my actual name.  Pretty sure just agreeing to bargain about this in the first place means that we’ve _sprinted_ past the point where we can be on a first-name basis.  Though to be honest, I’d thought that you giving up the Time Stone and legitimately _dying_ for me would’ve be—”

“I died so the _universe_ could be saved, not _yo_ —”

“You totally did it for me, and I don’t care what you say otherwise,” Stark snarks back, outright grinning at Stephen now, eyes crinkling in the corners and accentuating the age lines that have bloomed with age and the trauma of the past twelve years since Afghanistan.  Stephen scowls but there’s no real heat in it, and judging by the amusement sparkling in Stark’s chocolate brown eyes, he can obviously tell that Stephen’s not really that annoyed.

Stephen finally sighs and says in a completely insincere tone, “I did it just for you, Tony Stark.”  Though, if he’s being honest...it _had_ been for Stark, though for completely logical reasons rather than sentimental ones.  Had Stark died on Titan, or died at all, the war would’ve been lost and half the universe would be nothing but dust.  Stark had been the single point of failure, and so Stephen had sacrificed his life and the stone for him to live.

But he’s not going to admit that out loud.

Stark barks out a laugh and shoots back, “Alright, alright, I’ll stop poking at you with a stick and you can stick with your surnames.  Just don’t turn me into a frog or something.”  Stephen wants to scoff and tell Stark that that’s not how magic works, but suddenly Stark’s expression goes serious, eyes curious and intent on Stephen’s face.  “So,” he begins, his tone curiously flat, “I have an idea of where to start but I need to know if you trust me.”

Stephen swallows again, saliva suddenly thick in his mouth, and replies quietly, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Stark smiles, and it’s so bright and satisfied that Stephen’s heart stutters in his chest, unconsciously awed by the pureness of it.  Stark smiles all the time, happy with the universe being whole again and an eternal joker despite his past traumas, but these smiles of pure contentment are a rare thing, almost always directed towards Peter Parker, his son in all but blood.  Stephen wonders what he’s done to earn one of these smiles, and wonders if it’s possible to deserve another one in the future.  If they come to terms and Stephen’s good, that smile alone would be a brilliant reward.

“Thank you,” Stark says, every syllable dripping in earnest sincerity.  Stephen’s heart stutters yet again, and insanely, he wonders if he’s developed a heart condition.  He doubts it, due to his regular physical activity and wholesome diet, but there’s always the possibility.  After this negotiation, he’s going to subject his body to a battery of tests, if only for his own peace of mind.

Stark continues, “So first thing’s first, no sex, yeah?”  Stephen nods immediately, and the last lingering doubt in his mind whisks away when Stark says, “Figured as much, and totally fine.  However, I’m going to need five wants and any hard limits you might have right now, before we start negotiating.”

Stephen frowns, though he has an inkling as to where this is going.  “Why?”

Stark looks at him for a long moment, eyes searching for something, and then he replies bluntly, “Because you’re too in control right now, and that’s the total opposite of what we need for any negotiations.  I won’t do all of them if I don’t have to, though if you want me to and I’m comfortable with the level, I’ll definitely be game.  But no matter what, to get total honesty about what you need, I’m going to need you on the brink of subspace, because otherwise your logic’s going to get in the way.”

Stephen bites back the instinctive denial, because he understands what Stark’s getting at.  Dorian had done the same thing, twenty-ish years ago, because both Doms are right: Stephen won’t be able to really articulate what he wants if his mind is warring between the primal need to submit and his stubborn want to control everything even remotely related to him.

Still, it’s terrifying.  Stephen doesn’t go to subspace easily – it had taken Dorian hours if not _days_ to finally push him over, and he suspects that it’ll take Stark even longer since this is a new dynamic between them.  Because of that, neither one of them might even have the time to get Stephen ‘ _to the edge of subspace_ ’ if Stephen doesn’t give Stark his most desperate needs (or if Stark’s incapable or wary of acting on Stephen’s most desperate needs in the first place), and even though Stark’s going to be learning _everything_ about Stephen if they are compatible, the first admittance is always the hardest.

Stephen decides to start with his hard limits, because at least _that’s_ easier than talking about what sick and depraved things he needs to function as a normal human being.  “Hard limits are bestiality, scat, infantile play, pornographic images like videos or pictures, forced heterosexuality, anything religious or ritualistic, and anything with feet or socks, though shoes are fine.  And obviously sex and permanent collaring.”

“You say sex, but nothing about getting off.  Is that not on the table?” Stark asks, his voice even and collected, like a lawyer collecting facts, though the question itself is enough to make Stephen’s ears burn.  It’s ridiculous that he should be even remotely embarrassed about normal physical reactions to satisfying scenes, especially since he’s a doctor first and the newly minted Sorcerer Supreme second, but it does regardless.

“It’s...normal,” Stephen says reluctantly, even though he’s of the opinion that climaxing to pain and humiliation _isn’t_ normal.  “As long as there’s no sex or...sex or masturbation, orgasms are expected.”

“Okay,” Stark replies simply.  “We’ll negotiate touch and impact later, but at least for this one, I’m not going to touch you at all unless it’s aftercare or general set-up, like for bondage, okay?  If you have a specific need that involves touching, it’s going to have to wait.  Now tell me five things that you know or at least believe will get you to the edge faster than most, even if you don’t think I’ll like or even be comfortable with them, because seriously, you aren’t going to surprise me.  Just let loose, alright?”

Stephen swallows yet again, this time his mouth and throat bone-dry, and steels up every ounce of confidence he can muster, as he needs it to suffer through this shameful admittance.  “I...”  Stephen trails off, clears his throat, and then rasps honestly, “Asphyxiation.  Marking.  Bondage.  Kneeling.”  He hesitates, and then with a serious effort, whispers, “D&H.”

Stark cocks his head, eyes piercing, and says, “I’m guessing the last one is the big one.  Can you expand on what you like from each?  Degradation and humiliation can get triggering.”

Stephen clenches his eyes shut and manages to croak, “Just _anything_.”

“No, that’s not good enough, not for edge play.  On your knees,” Stark says, and it’s not a request.

Stephen falls from his chair instantly, landing on his knees with a slight wince; his arms link behind his back, grasping each elbow with the opposite hand, and he bows his head while shutting his eyes, the perfect show of submission that makes his entire body shiver in preparation.  A small part of him is terrified, horrified, and disgusted at how quickly he had obeyed, but at the same time, Stephen knows that he’s safe here, hidden behind the impenetrable walls of Stark’s personal workshop and at the mercy of the man he once sacrificed half the universe for.  There’s nothing to fear here, only things to anticipate, because honestly Stephen _needs_ this to work, for his own mental health that directly correlates with how well he can almost single-handedly shield the universe from harm and pain.

He needs to gain control over his life by _submitting to control_ , and Tony Stark is his best chance of doing that.

There’s a pause, then the sound of chairs being rolled out of the way, and finally he feels Stark at his back, his breathing heavy but unlaboured against Stephen’s exposed neck.  He says in a low murmur, “For this, generic safewords apply: red for ‘stop immediately’, yellow for ‘I need a break or to slow down’, and green for ‘good to go’.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Stephen breathes, panting with anticipation.

“Say my name,” Stark orders, and then immediately follows it with “My _full_ name.”

Stephen shivers and whispers, “ _Anthony_.”  It’s the first and only time Stephen’s actually _heard_ ‘Anthony’ said out loud, as Stark much prefers ‘Tony’ whilst Stephen uses Stark’s surname, and the full pronunciation of Stark’s name (oh-so foreign on Stephen’s tongue) sounds like a legitimate title, somehow more fitting than the usual _Master_ or _Sir_ or _Lord_.

“Now repeat the safewords, and be polite about it,” Stark demands, his voice slightly breathless but no less strong.

“Red for stop, yellow for a break, green for good, Anthony,” Stephen gasps, almost incoherent because it’s been _so long_.  With the introduction of the safewords, Stephen finally allows his mind to unwind, letting go of a sizable chunk of his ironclad control and releasing it, desperate for relief and _peace_.  He feels his muscles relax, though his posture remains impeccable, and his mouth floods with saliva, forcing him to swallow rapidly to keep from drooling.

There’s another beat of silence, and then something metal traces his skin, a light touch.  Stephen tries to place it – about two inches long, maybe two or three millimetres wide, flat and blunt-edged – but can’t, and he wants to open his eyes and turn to look at but he hasn’t permission to do so.  Stark lets it linger along his neck, sweeping side to side a few times in a slow glide, and then brushes it around his hood and down his spine with just enough pressure that Stephen can feel it through his baggy sweatshirt and the thin shirt underneath.  Stark finally reaches the middle of Stephen’s back, and the thing moves so Stark can let it run up and down Stephen’s arms, one right after another, the sensation slightly ticklish and making gooseflesh break out on his skin.

Then he hears a low hum ( _technology_ ) and suddenly he feels two different restraints moulding to his skin, locking his wrists to their opposite arms right below the elbow.

Stephen groans in the back of his throat, the sharp spike of arousal causing his muscles to tense and sweat to finally break out along his hairline.  He wishes he could feel it upon his skin, but he gets it – they haven’t negotiated clothing removal yet, and so Stark’s respecting initial boundaries for both of them.  A few moments later he feels a second device (probably Stark’s own creations) lock onto his shins and thighs, forcing his legs to stay together in his kneeling position.

“Colour?” Stark murmurs, and Stephen doesn’t hesitate to say _green_ immediately.

He feels something else move over his head then and registers it as some sort of blindfold when he opens his eyes a smidge and sees nothing but blackness.  It amplifies his other sensations: the tight but comfortable restraints on his arms and legs, the pinpricks and tingles of his legs as blood flow is slowly diverted and cut off from his feet, the lovely ache of his knees against the cold concrete floors.

Then he feels something else go over his head, metal but flexible, and it hangs loosely around his neck until he feels Stark’s hands brush against his sensitive skin as he fiddles with it.  It feels like a collar, and he’s proven right when the metal suddenly shrinks around his neck, sitting against his skin snugly but not too tightly to cut off air or blood.  Stephen can’t help but moan, loudly and without filter, every cell in his body electrified by the discomfort and total helplessness of his current state.  He feels his mind hum in relief and his prick fill with blood, growing rapidly harder in his joggers and pants.  He knows Stark will be able to see it but he doesn’t much care, because arousal _is_ a normal response to emotional, mental, and physical satisfaction (despite how abnormal his needs are), and besides, Stark had wanted him on the edge.  Seeing and hearing Stephen’s responses to what Stark’s doing will please him, which only makes Stephen himself harder.

Stark lets out a sharp, shaky, almost _aroused_ exhale, confirming Stephen’s rambling thoughts, and Stephen’s entire body throbs at the sound, another moan tearing from his throat without thought.  The pleasure from his current state and from knowing Stark’s satisfied by Stephen’s response sings in his bloodstream, causing him to shudder uncontrollably in his restraints.  He strains to keep his posture and balance but the shivers can’t be hidden, regardless of Stephen’s heavy layers, and he hears himself whisper breathlessly, “ _Please Anthony_.”

“Fuck,” Stark murmurs, his voice right next to his ear and sounding so low that it’s practically a purr.  The closeness surprises Stephen but he doesn’t move, despite knowing that Stark’s looking over his shoulder, likely watching Stephen’s body react from a high vantage point.  _Let him look_ , Stephen thinks, fevered and wretched, _let him see what his actions are doing to me for his enjoyment_.

And Christ, Stark hasn’t even really _started_ yet.

“Now this is what we’re going to do,” Stark rumbles, his heated and fast breaths so close to Stephen’s ears that his skin grows humid.  “I’m going to go through a nice, long laundry list of things, even things you think we’ve already covered, and you’re going to answer with single-word answers, which we’ll expand upon later.  Answer with these words: need, yes, maybe, depends, no, and limit.  You’re going to give me answers, and they’re going to be both verbal and non-verbal.  I’m going to read your body like a book, baby, so be nice and open for me, do you understand?”

Stephen whines in the back of his throat, thighs tingling and prick aching.  He lifts his head so he can feel the bite of the metal collar around his neck and whines again, this time out loud and unashamed, already so far gone that he feels lightheaded and buoyant.  “Yes Anthony,” he says, and it’s almost a sob, the need to be good and _obedient_ overwhelming in its intensity.

“Good boy,” Stark whispers, to Stephen’s delirious approval, and settles behind him, close enough for Stephen to feel his body heat but carefully not touching him.  And _oh_ , but Stephen wants Stark to touch him, everywhere and anywhere, make him hurt and put his shattered, desperate mind back together until he feels whole again.

And Stark begins.  Some of them are things that even Stephen, after thirty years of being Dominated irregularly and researching extensively, hasn’t once considered or realised were things, and some are not at all what he wants.  Things like bathroom use control, wrestling, chamber pot use, hypnotism, forced bedwetting, manicures, swallowing urine, tampon training, and even _plastic surgery_ are hard limits that would’ve torn Stephen out of his headspace had Stark not evenly spaced them in between tantalising things like intricate and basic harnessing, spitting, whipping, strapping, and choking.  He regularly asks for Stephen’s colour, and Stephen’s always green, despite some uncomfortable and invasive questions.

Slowly but surely, Stephen falls closer and closer to the line.  He’s not sure how long it’s been since the rapid-fire questioning began, but he can feel his mind on the edge of subspace, that glorious high _so fucking close_ and yet being held at bay by the last lingering stubborn thread of logic and control Stephen’s managed to keep intact.  With each question, even the hard limits, he steps closer to the precipice, and Stark helps by occasionally throwing in spontaneous, creative responses directly correlating with the things he learns (though he’s careful not to touch, and constantly asks for Stephen’s colour): sporadic squeezes of the automatic collar around his neck, enough to choke off his breathing for a glorious moment; the scratch of a sharp object, perhaps a screw or nail, along his exposed body parts; both light and powerful hits with something rubber, maybe an engine belt, on every part of his body except his face and hands and shoes; the feeling of something hot but not branding against his skin, like the hot tip of a lighter or blowtorch; shocks on his neck, wrists, and ankles, the electricity buzzing through his veins with a bite that doesn’t tip too far.  It goes on and on and on until time is warped and he can’t even remember his own name, body singing with pain as he sobs and cries each solitary word and wet plea.  He feels disjointed, but still somewhat tethered, and wonders how much more Stark can even ask him, the amount of detail Stark demands truly staggering in its complexity.

That last meagre shred of dignity and self-control snaps completely, his mind disassociating with reality, when Stark finally asks, “Are you worthless?”

Stephen cries out, his entire body jolting like a marionette on a string, and he falls to the side.  Stark ( _Dom-Dom- **Anthony**_ ) catches him and helps him to the floor, the cold concrete a shock to his system due to his overheated body.  Stephen’s hips buck uncontrollably, his folded legs and arms straining against their restraints, and his arched back makes the collar dig into his throat deliciously.  Everything is overloud – their fast breathing, the rhythmic scrape of Stephen’s clothes and restraints dragging against the concrete, Stephen’s lewd _need-need-please-Anthony-yes_ , the hum of the air conditioning and purifier and technology, Anthony’s groaned _there you go baby let it happen_ – and the ache in his muscles and bones eases like he’s injected morphine.

“Are you a cheap, pathetic whore?” Anthony rasps, and Stephen actually _sobs_ his repetition of _need-Anthony- **please**_ , prick and balls aching with the need to come.   He’s intensely aware of Anthony’s hands on his back, and he pushes into it, choking himself from the angle of his neck, straining towards Anthony’s touch to ground himself even though he’s close to flying, throbbing with pain and the need to release.

He feels one of Anthony’s hands leave him, and suddenly Anthony’s shoving down his sweaty cotton joggers and pants just enough to expose the left cheek of his arse.  “Is this all you’re good for?  Getting punished like a disgusting, depraved slut?”  Stephen hears a whoosh of air and then there’s sharp agony belatedly blooming up his skin, fiery and hot and _so good_ , his flesh shrieking in pain from the powerful hit of the rubber belt.  Stephen _weeps_ , burying his face into Anthony’s defined thighs and screaming _need-Anthony-please!_ until his throat is raw from it.

“Fuck, baby, you’re fucking _desperate_ for it,” Anthony gasps, and begins hitting Stephen over and over again, his free hand moving up to grasp a handful of Stephen’s thick hair in a tight, controlling grasp despite his strict no-touching rule for the past who-knows-who- _cares_ -how-long.  Anthony pulls Stephen’s head back by the hair, the collar beginning to cut off blood flow and air, and positively _lays into him_ , on his exposed left cheek as well as over the rest of his body that’s in easy reach.  “Listen to you, begging for me to hit harder, to fucking hurt you, and _fuck_ , you take it so well, like you were _made_ to be punished.  You’re _filthy_ , baby, asking for this, wanting it so badly that you’re pleading for more.  Fucking _trash_ , baby, you’re _fucking trash_ , so _take it_ , you useless, disgusting piece of shit, _take it_.”

 

 

And the belt hits his exposed hip with Anthony’s last sentence, the end of it connecting harshly on Stephen’s clothed prick, and Stephen screams brokenly, body arching in his restraints as he releases so violently that he feels muscles strain and joints crack.  The tension in his body completely cuts off his blood and air flow, the collar tight-tight-tight around his neck, and it heightens everything Stephen feels, white spots dancing behind his clenched eyes and his screaming cutting off to a choking gurgle.  He feels drool on his chin and Stephen can’t stop _coming_ , every pulse aching in his balls and drenching his pants even further, making him truly filthy and depraved in more than just words.

Anthony groans, a drawn out and agonised sound, and Stephen can distantly feel Anthony’s hips twitching into open air and the constant shudders of his muscles beneath tight denim, but then there’s nothing, just floating, blissful relief, and he’s high, he’s gone, everything is beautiful and soft and perfect and glorious, nothing hurts and he’s fucking _stoned_ with endorphins and enkephalins and epinephrine rushing through his body.

He’s euphoric and out-of-body for an indeterminable amount of time, but he inevitably starts falling, slow and languid.  He registers the feeling of Anthony’s quick massage on his tingling legs first – going back and forth between the two so there’s no significant gap of time between them – but he doesn’t address or push into it.  Instead he drifts, body lax and compliant, incapable of speech and independent movement, and simply lets Anthony manhandle his limbs to test freedom of movement: bending and straightening out elbows and knees, rotating shoulders and ankles and wrists, moving his head gently to check his likely-bruised throat.  Then Anthony’s massaging his clothed legs and arms again, more thoroughly this time, to make sure that blood is flowing where it’s supposed to be.  He feels intermittent, fleeting touches on his skin, touches that deliberately avoid locations where Stephen had been restrained or beaten, like thumbs wiping off drying tears and saliva from Stephen’s face, fingers caressing the damaged fingers of Stephen’s hands, a soft touch that feels like a kiss against his sweat-damp hair.  Stephen hums contentedly, the vibrations from it felt all over his body, and he buries his head deeper into Anthony’s lap, feeling Anthony’s rigid erection against his cheek and smelling the musky scent of Anthony’s precome that’s copiously soaked through the denim.

He feels a deep pang of unease at the thought that Anthony’s still hasn’t come, hasn’t been physically satisfied, tearing through the floating high of subspace.  However, as soon as the thought passes his mind, he hears Anthony say as if underwater, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay, I’m _so_ good, you have no _idea_...” and Stephen relaxes, unclenching his hands that had unconsciously dug into Anthony’s thigh in distress, the rest of Anthony’s words fading into a soothing buzz in the background.  Anthony goes back to the touches, calloused fingers caressing and petting every undamaged centimetre of Stephen’s cooling body, intimate and comforting and oh so lovely.

Stephen begins shivering, cold despite his numerous layers, due to the endorphin drop and the cooling sweat that’s soaked through his clothing.  It’s almost an instant later that he feels Anthony’s hands leave his body, and then he’s wrapped in a blanket that cocoons him in warmth from the shoulders down, Anthony’s strong legs warming the rest of him.  One hand gently traces Stephen’s jaw and coaxes it to open, slipping to the back of his head so he can support Stephen’s skull; the press of a water bottle comes next, and Anthony squeezes small, manageable streams of water through the spout into Stephen’s mouth, Stephen still high enough to not care that some of it dribbles down his chin despite drinking eagerly.  Once he’s had his fill, Anthony simply wipes the mess with his thumb, and Stephen can hear him practically cooing, though the words are indecipherable to Stephen’s foggy brain.

Stephen falls asleep to the feeling of Anthony’s fingers in his hair and the reassuring sound of his voice.

 

* * *

 

_Three_

 

Stephen regains consciousness slowly, like he’s swimming through molasses.

When he’s finally coherent enough to register that he’s in a bed, warm and comfortable, he opens his eyes.  He doesn’t recognise the location – minimally decorated, large bed, pale grey and white bedding, cream walls, an ashy-coloured desk against floor-to-ceiling windows, massive television posted on the wall, an attached walk-in wardrobe and bathroom, a small sitting area in the corner, a coffee station next to the couch – but he’s not alarmed, because Antho— _Stark_ is sitting on one of the couches, nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window to the distant skyline of the city.

Stephen sits up in bed and watches him for a moment, drinking in the sight of Stark bathed in the dying afternoon sunlight.  It illuminates his features with a glowing poignance, the bronze undertones in his hair shining brightly and his brown eyes almost honey-coloured.  It accentuates the golden shade of his skin and emphasises that wide, shapely mouth, and _fuck_ is Tony Stark a gorgeous human being.

Perhaps Stephen is seeing it with skewed eyes, or perhaps it’s the late afternoon sunlight, but Stark looks younger, the deep lines of stress and age around his eyes and mouth noticeably reduced.  Stephen knows that relief from an ailment or high anxiety and stress can give the appearance of health and youthfulness (the same way that Stephen always looks paradoxically refreshed and renewed after a desperately needed scene despite the guilt and self-disgust that lingers in his head for weeks or longer), and Stephen wonders if it had been Stephen’s submission that had taken ten years off Stark’s face or if he’d just gotten some rest (which Stark is notorious for stiff-arming).

As he looks at Stark’s handsome features and strong, solid body, his mind drifts.  He feels the usual revulsion and hateful shame at how weak and disgusting he is for needing to submit, for not being _perfect_ and _always in control_ like what has been expected from him since he was a child, but there’s no denying that the black, oily, toxic tendrils of his despicable need have almost completely been subdued.  Save the constant tickle in the back of his mind of self-hatred and disgust and _need_ , a feeling that’s never fully obliterated in his psyche, he feels strong, centred, and in total command over his mind and body.  It’s _beautiful_ , knowing that he’s almost normal again, and tears prick at his eyes, the overwhelming emotion of that relief (as well as the lingering residue of that intense scene with Stark, an expected and normal reaction to subspace and the following descent) like a kick to the gut.

He traces the angles and lines of Stark’s features with his gaze and feels so much gratitude and honest-to-God _affection_ for the man that he almost wants to kneel at Stark’s feet and press lingering, worshipful kisses onto those beautiful lips.

He doesn’t though.  Instead, he forces down the sentiment and waits for his eyes to dry before he clears his throat, preparing to speak.  Stark’s eyes snap to him at the sound, and he’s off the couch and advancing towards Stephen faster than Stephen’s heart can beat, eyes focussed on Stephen’s own features as if trying to look past his skin and into his very soul.

“Hey,” he greets, voice quiet and gentle as he sits on the bed next to Stephen’s side, maintaining a respectful distance but still close enough for comfort.  The half-empty coffee cup is put on the nightstand distractedly, and Stephen watches Stark’s capable, lovely hands fold together.  “How’re you feeling, Sleeping Beauty?” he continues, and there’s a slight edge to his tone that alarms Stephen.

Stephen blinks, clears his throat again, and says in a sleep-rough but firm murmur, “I’m sane, which is a godsend, and I’m not hurting at all except for a bit of an ache in my hip, which is normal and quite appreciated actually, but that can be discussed in a moment.  What’s wrong?”

Stark’s nostrils flair and then he sighs, a deep exhalation that seems to come from the tips of his toes.  “I’m good,” Stark replies, and it sounds honest, though conflicted.  “I was just a bit worried, because that went farther than I originally planned and I didn’t know how you’d be when you woke up.”

Stephen frowns and says with a small amount of reluctance, “It was...it was good, Stark.  I would’ve safeworded if it hadn’t been.”

Stark sighs again, and his eyes flick down towards his hands in a rare show of uncertainty before he looks back into Stephen’s eyes.  “I didn’t mean to actually push into a full-up scene without having that initial negotiation first, because we should’ve had a full negotiation and written agreement first.  Shit, I wanted you on the brink of subspace, not kicked over the edge, and I genuinely apologise for that.  I shouldn’t have introduced things into that scene without setting up boundaries first, especially with edge play like D&H.”

Even though Stephen is reluctant to have this conversation (he’s scared that talking about negotiations and needs will burn the newly-achieved tranquillity and control he’s gained since said scene, making him feel the need faster than he wants to), he also understands the necessity of it.  They _haven’t_ had a full negotiation yet, to find out if they’re truly compatible enough to make this work, because despite Stephen’s intoxicating, fulfilling, and admittedly surprising dive into subspace, _Stark_ hasn’t acknowledged what he is and isn’t willing to do yet, or if he’s even okay with what happened at all.

A surge of guilt rushes through his veins, and he only barely manages to keep the whine locked away and the distraught expression off his face.  He swallows thickly, and wanting to assure Stark that everything’s _genuinely okay_ , that he’s not in sub-drop and is _functionable_ because of Stark’s confident and creative Domination, he says shakily, “Stark, you must understand that this is the best I’ve felt in almost a _year_.  Perhaps in a general sense it’s bad etiquette for negotiations, but we’re in a different situation than most potential new partners in this scenario.  We didn’t have to build up trust and camaraderie from scratch, because it was already there, and has been since I popped out of a portal in Central Park asking for your help against Thanos.  Hell, the trust on my side has been there since I had a patient on my operating table while the entire city was under attack from an alien species, and has been there since I watched you fly a goddamned nuclear warhead into a wormhole in the sky with my own two eyes, all without a single regard to your own safety.  What you...what you just did for me in there is _indescribable_ , Stark, and you have to trust me when I say that _you did nothing wrong_ , just like I trusted you to take my safety and stability into your control and keep me from falling apart.”

Stark stares at him with astonishment, big brown eyes wide and mouth slightly open, and then a slow smile blooms on his face like the sunrise, taking Stephen’s breath away more effectively than any collar, hand, or rope ever could.  Stephen feels his heart flutter rapidly, like a hummingbird’s wings, and he vaguely recalls the distant thought that this pure, truly glorious smile would be a spectacular reward if he was worthy of ever seeing it again.  He’s not wrong (even if he’s not entirely sure why his words had warranted the smile in the first place), and his entire chest expands with the sight of it, directed at Stephen and Stephen alone.

“Thank you,” Stark breathes, an echo of that earnest sincerity he had uttered before their first scene, but there’s an awe to it that Stephen simply doesn’t understand.  He hasn’t earnt awe yet – he’s only been secretive and cordially polite in front of Stark, both in this reality and in the millions of futures he’s seen (and disgustingly weak in this reality alone), and it seems so bizarre to hear it in Stark’s voice, especially since he’s not sure what he’s being thanked for.  Stephen is intelligent, to the point where he’s seen as unapproachable by the majority of people, who register his manner as cold and aloof and aggressive, but he simply doesn’t understand _people_ on a fundamental level.  He certainly doesn’t comprehend Stark’s response to cold, unadulterated fact on Stark’s character and attributes.

“Look, I’m fine,” Stephen assures Stark, strangely uncomfortable with the way Stark’s looking at him and wanting to move on.  “I’m _more_ than fine.  If you’re also fine, then we should probably get the formal talk out of the way so we can go about the rest of our day, whatever day that may be.  How long was I unconscious?”

Stark shakes his head a few times, then sniffs to clear his nose and replies, “Almost twenty hours.”

Stephen blinks once, and then sighs.  He hadn’t anticipated the negotiation to turn into a scene (even though he should’ve), and therefore he’s missed appointments and meetings.  If he had been logical and thought a proper negotiation through, he would’ve assessed that Stark would at least turn him on with Stephen’s needs to _discover_ those needs, and he would’ve anticipated crashing for a long period after.  Stephen has the unfortunate habit of sleeping for obscene amounts of time if he needs to recover from submission, even if subspace doesn’t factor into a scene.

He wonders if Wong has sent out the armada looking for him yet.

“Have you had any persistent visitors?” Stephen inquires, despite already having a good idea about the answer.

Stark laughs, and it’s surprisingly mischievous.  “Naturally,” he answers, eyes sparkling with amusement.  “I _might_ have inferred that I kicked your self-important arse in a spar and you were recovering but rest assured that I _deliberately_ said that I had you on a research project.  Your momma-bear was not amused with my blatant lying, so be prepared for a proper scolding when you get back to the magic castle.”

“Were you dropped on your head as a child or were you born this unbearable?” Stephen asks flatly, but his lips twitch with laughter; judging by the snigger Stark lets escape, the twitch was not missed.

“I was born this way, baby.  Lady Gaga said so, so it must be gospel,” Stark teases with a dramatic wink, and Stephen fights hard to keep his face impassive at the quoted endearment.  It’s an illogical reaction to flush or let out a whine because it’s a _fucking song lyric_ , not a goddamn throwback to their scene; at the same time, his heart thuds heavily in his chest as he remembers Stark gasping heatedly in his ear, ‘ _Fuck, baby, you’re fucking **desperate** for it_ ,’ and for Christ’s sake, now is _not_ the time to get hard.

His traitorous prick twitches nevertheless.

Stephen decides to get this over with already (even though he’s probably going to be even more aroused at the topic of conversation), and says a tad too hastily, “Back to the subject at hand?  I’d like to leave at some point this week, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Stark eyes him shrewdly, and Stephen feels horribly transparent, like Stark’s reading every thought in his brain.  Honestly, he probably _is_ , in a weird way, because Stark’s always been the one with the people skills, and Stephen has to admit that Stark a good Dominant from what he’s seen thus far – good Doms are observant to the level where it’s a science, reading every micro-expression and seeing every tiny detail in their environments and in the body language of their submissives.  Stephen will have to see the... _information_ Stark’s gathered during their negotiation scene to really get a measure of how observant and thorough he is, because that’ll be the true test of Stark’s capabilities.

“Alright, pretty boy,” Stark says ( _and that’s not really better to hear_ , Stephen thinks, swallowing the pooling saliva in his mouth), standing up and heading over to the desk.  As he walks, his stride purposeful and easy ( _fuck he’s gorgeous_ , Stephen thinks absently), he continues, “List is typed up, printed, and ready for review, with all soft-copies obliterated off the face of the planet.”  He grabs a folder, which has a sizable amount of paper in it, and turns back around, saying, “As far as I’m concerned, we’re not going to have issues, if we can come to a consensus about a few things.  Surprisingly, we’re pretty compatible, though I’ll be the first to admit that this is new to me.”

Stephen frowns and asks, “New?  I thought you had experience.”

“Sure,” Stark says, reaching the side of Stephen’s temporary bed.  Stephen scoots over, keeping his lower body under the soft sheets and blanket, and Stark smiles, sitting more steadily on the bed.  He folds his legs together, socked feet under his thighs, and Stark’s position leaves nothing to the imagination.  In fact, Stephen can’t help but notice the bulge in the centre of his hips, a sizable prick covered in tight denim.  Weirdly enough, the knowledge that Stark’s aroused (either by the upcoming conversation or the lingering effects of their negotiation scene) makes it easier to accept that _Stephen’s_ half-hard in his...

Stephen lifts up the blanket and sheets and says flatly to his _Harry Potter_ -themed pyjama bottoms, “Nice, Stark.”

Stark actually _giggles_ , the little fuck, as he says, “I thought they matched your mad wizard skills.”

Stephen shoots Stark a glare that could make a rock flinch, and to his annoyance, Stark just grins back.

He doesn’t ask why Stark has pyjamas for Stephen (the answer is obvious: Stephen will probably crash here at least once a year, and not exactly in the coherent mindset where he would remember to bring toiletries and clothes) and he doesn’t freak out about Stark seeing him naked as he changed his clothes and cleaned him up (because Stark will be seeing a _lot_ of Stephen’s body, and will absolutely do those things again in the future).  Instead, he sighs, gestures for the contract, and says, “You were saying?”

“Huh?  Oh yeah, right,” Stark replies, scratching the back of his head as he gives Stephen the contract.  Then he leans back on his hands, giving Stephen a good view of his entire compact, solid body in its tight denims and ratty Pearl Jam shirt.  “So this is new to me in the sense that I’m definitely an old hat at doing this, but only in conjunction with sexual encounters.”  Stephen feels a twinge of unease in his chest, and something must show on his face because Stark adds, “Not that that’s a problem whatsoever; it’s just a different dynamic to explore.  Y’know, the idea that I’m not going to be getting off during this, even though I always have before with my other partners.  It’s just different, but not bad at all.”

“It’s…fine if you do, you know,” Stephen says, and he’s actually being honest.  “It’s a normal reaction.”

“I know that,” Stark replies, giving Stephen an easy smile.  “I don’t have to be a doctor to know that getting off is perfectly normal – if it wasn’t, the human race would’ve died out eons ago.”

Stephen can’t help but laugh.

Stark looks pleased with Stephen’s response, his smile growing into a wide, genuinely happy grin.  Then he sniffs a bit and visibly forces himself to put on a more serious expression, though his eyes are still bright.  “So, ready to see how I did?”

Stephen nods once, and then opens the folder so he can read the unbound pages.  The language is pure legalese, very professional, the checked boxes and comments next to each highly detailed kink, fetish, and play option are filled with text, and the longer he studies Stark’s compilation, the more impressed he is.  He makes sure to read every word, noting every highlighted blank comment section, and even though most of Stark’s observations are utterly horrifying now that Stephen’s mind is settled, he’s still rock hard and slightly sweating by the time he reaches the last page of the contract.

“It’s very thorough,” Stephen says when he’s finished, voice carefully controlled to not display his intense arousal.  “I suppose the highlighted portions are the secondary negotiations?”

“Yep,” Stark answers, popping the ‘p’.  “I’ll need supplemental information on each one, either to throw it out entirely or RACK it if it’s edge play.”

Stephen nods in understanding, and then flips to one of the more important highlighted sections immediately: _asphyxiation_.  He approves of the call-out, even if he’s somewhat nervous that Stark will bench it despite Stephen’s need of it.  He can’t imagine Stark would, because he had had obviously built a collar device for just that, but he can’t help but feel that anxiety.

Stark scoots closer so his knees press against Stephen’s hidden ones, looking at the contract upside down.  “This one’s important, obviously, considering it’s in your top five.  A lot of the risk is taken out because I designed tech specifically for this purpose.  I won’t use anything for breathplay that I haven’t designed myself, like neck ties or rope, because I install software on my tech that monitors heartbeat and blood pressure as it’s used.  There are too many possibilities of errors with ordinary equipment, and I’m not going to take that chance with you.  Question though: what exactly are you looking for in regards to asphyxiation?  Just the pressure on your throat or are you looking to lose consciousness on occasion, particularly right at orgasm?”

Stephen’s prick is like a beacon, throbbing with arousal and need.  His mind feels a bit fuzzy, and his voice is thick when he replies, “Both, but only if you’re comfortable with it.  With your handmade equipment, the danger is significantly less, but there’s always the possibility for error.”

Stark’s quiet for a moment, staring intently at Stephen with that same all-seeing gaze, and then he says, “I’m only uncomfortable if I’m not using my tech.  If we do a scene and I don’t have it, the most I’m going to be doing is a hand around your neck, no squeezing.  Okay?”

Stephen licks his lips absently, noticing that Stark follows the movement with those big eyes of his, and replies, “Of course.”

“Goodie,” Stark says, and then steals away the contract.  Stephen doesn’t even register that Stark’s snagged it, unable to take his eyes off Stark (who’s a tad bit pink in the cheeks, for some unknown reason), until he sees Stark’s hand moving.  He glances down, watching Stark mark down the terms and clarifications in ink, and is utterly fascinated by the loopy, almost feminine handwriting.  He had expected something more... _engineer-like_ , like blocky, uniform letters all in caps.  Instead, Stark writes like a sixteen-year-old girl, pretty and legible and the complete opposite of what Stephen would’ve anticipated.

And much different than Stephen, who writes like the stereotypical doctor: fast, shorthand, and a nurse’s worst nightmare due to its illegibility.

Stark finishes and then begins flipping pages, saying distractedly, “Some of these we’re going to chat about in a big chunk, since they all could and can be tied together in a nice bundle of ‘ _we both probably need to get our heads checked_ ’—”  Stephen laughs again, and it surprises him just as much as it does Stark, who glances up with a smile and raises an amused eyebrow while continuing, “—so we’ll just go over the outliers.  Hmm, okay, branding, which I suppose can be lumped in with tattooing; not okay with either of those personally.  Only way I would be comfortable with that is if I was in a long-term relationship, and yeah, no, that’s not a thing here.  I’m totally fine with temporary tattoos or henna, or hell, even Sharpie and paint, but nothing permanent in that regard.  Any issues with that?  What about off-limits locations if I _do_ decide to write or draw on you?  You gave me pretty solid ‘maybes’ on those, so I can’t imagine it’ll be a hardship to—”

“You’re rambling, Stark,” Stephen interrupts.

Stark startles, his monologue cutting off instantly and his fingers digging into the pages of the contract due to surprise. They stare at each other for a long moment, brown into glasz, and Stephen can see the words warring beneath those eyes, words that Stephen can’t guess for the life of him but sees just the same.  Then Stark lets out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, and says sheepishly, “Sorry, I guess I was.  Can I be honest?”

Stephen’s confused by the request, since he has been under the impression that they _are_ being honest with each other.  “Yes,” Stephen answers, though it comes out as more of a question, and he holds his breath, wondering if Stark’s going to take it all back, say that this arrangement is not going to work as he pushes Stephen out the door.

But Stark doesn’t.  He lets out a loud, fortifying exhale and admits, “Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I’m not exactly in control of my head right now.  I’ve been hard for twenty hours and mentally stimulated since the spar, so talking and reading about all of this is not at all helping matters.  Especially since I can tell that you’re hard too, even if you’re hiding it underneath your covers.”

Stephen’s heart thuds and his prick twitches, but he keeps his face as impassive as he can as he asks curiously, “You didn’t...?”

Stark laughs, a tortured sound that almost sounds like a whine, and drops the folder and biro onto the bedding beside him, rubbing his face with his hands.  His voice slightly muffled, he answers, “Nah.  For one, I didn’t know if...I dunno, if I was allowed?  Does that make sense?  I feel like that doesn’t make sense.”  His hands drop to his lap, high up and almost-but-not-quite touching the bulge in his jeans, and his eyes fall back onto Stephen as he continues, “Look, we can negotiate that in a minute, since I’m saving that bit for last, but honestly, I just wasn’t comfortable pulling one out until you’re gone.  We’ll talk more about it in a minute, okay?  I want to get through the other talking points first.  Sound good?”

Stephen nods, then says, “You can draw or write wherever, as long as it’s not visible when I’m in my robes.”

Stark blinks at the seemingly abrupt subject change, then shoots him a quick smile before he sighs and picks the folder and biro back up.  “Easy enough,” he says as he scribbles in the branding section, eyes focussed on the words he writes down.  He flips closer to the end, writes a similar note to the side of the tattooing section and then flips back forward.  Once he’s found his place, he says, “So the next bit can all be lumped together and copied onto each box if we agree.  Anywho, pretty much everything to do with prison scenes or interrogation is a _big_ limit for me, I suppose for well-publicised reasons.  Cells, cages, stocks, the generic handcuffs cops use or zip-ties, hoods of any kind, interrogations, kidnapping, forced eating or starvation, and _especially_ water torture are enough to make me want to jump off a building without my suit.  You had a lot of favourable reactions to some of those, particularly the cuffs, cages, and forced eating and starvation, but that’s not going to happen here.  In fact, those are my only hard limits other than brown showers, so if that’s a problem, you need to tell me now.”

Stephen thinks of Afghanistan and Stark being tortured for months until he created the Iron Man prototype, and really doesn’t blame Stark for being triggered by anything that will even remotely remind him of that horrible chapter of his life, even if the experience had shaped Stark into the man he is today.  Without even a second of hesitation (especially since he has a similar traumatic reaction to anything regarding Daddy/little and medical play), he answers earnestly, “That’s no issue, Stark.  If I expect you to respect my limits, it would be highly inconsiderate if I disregarded yours.”

Stark looks at him, his expression soft, and Stephen finally lowers his eyes to his scarred, shaking hands, not able to maintain eye contact without doing something humiliating, like flush or shudder from the eyes that are staring right into him.  “Hey,” Stark says gently, and there’s a hand on Stephen’s elbow, cradling the bone in a delicate grip.  “No need to get all bashful now.  I get it, okay?”

Stephen nods again, incapable of speech, but doesn’t look up.  Stark squeezes his elbow once, puffs out a small, soft laugh, and then removes his hand.  Stephen hears him pick up the folder and tap the biro against the pages with a dull _click-click-click_ , and then Stark says, “Let’s move on, shall we?”

Stephen’s lips quirk into a small, hidden smile, and replies as evenly as he can manage, “Please.”

There’s a moment of quiet, save the flutter of pages, and then Stark begins speaking again.  “Next is cutting, which can be lumped in with knife play and scarification.  I’m fine with any of the above, but d’you have limits or a preference for location?”

Stephen takes a deep breath and then replies, “Nothing showing when I’m in my robes, same as with the tattoos, or any marks and bruises really.  As for limits, nothing permanently damaging, though if I need stitches, that’s something that you’ll have to deal with, as I’m not steady enough with sutures anymore.”  Even though Stephen is fully aware that Stark knows, he still shows his scarred hands, shaky and damaged.  “If need be, I can funnel magic into my hands to do it in a pinch, but I’d prefer not to since it takes an obscene amount of energy to do and will make me unable to perform magic if an emergency arises.”

Stark says sarcastically, “Trust me, baby, I’m an old pro at stitches.”  Stephen’s flagging prick twitches in its confines, and Stephen hurriedly places his hands back in his lap, both to hide the increased shaking as well as to superfluously cover his lap, though he should’ve known better.  Stark eyes him again, then eyes Stephen’s hands, and mentions off-handedly, “You had a pretty negative response to Daddy/little dynamics, so I’m honestly kind of surprised that ‘baby’ gets to you.”

Stephen can _feel_ the raging flush on his face now, skin hot and traitorous, and he croaks, “ _Definitely_ not into that.  _At all_.”  He hesitates, Stark waiting patiently, and adds with reluctance, “And I don’t know either.”  He despises when there’s something about his psyche outside of a scene (or even _in_ a scene, really) that he can’t control, and his reactions to Stark’s absently-said endearment is one of those things he simply just doesn’t understand.

Stark hums, then says, “I can stop if you’d like, but considering your reaction to it...”

“No,” Stephen blurts, eyes snapping back to Stark’s face in alarm, then feels the flush on his face turn into an inferno.  “I mean, it’s fine.  Perhaps not...in public?”

Stark rolls his eyes.  “ _Obviously_ ,” he drawls, then winks and tacks on, “This is our business, not anyone else’s.”

Which reminds Stephen of a thought he’s had.  “Not even Rhodes and Pepper?”

Stark grimaces and says, “ _Fuck_ no.  Pepper knows that I’ve been in the scene ever since she started working for me, which means essentially cleaning up all of my messes, but Jesus, as much as I love that woman, the kinkiest we ever got was verbal sparring and reverse cowgirl when we were dating.  She tried not to think about it and I tried to bury it in response, which wasn’t good for either one of us.  Anyway, she doesn’t need to know _how_ I’m spending my time outside of PR circuses and hospital visits, and besides, it’s not really any of her business what your proclivities are.  As for Rhodey...well, honestly, if I told him, it would just be a shitstorm.  He’d tease both of us for days, not to mention that he’d start planning a wedding or something.”

Stephen’s eyes widen.  “That’s a bit of a dramatic escalation,” he says, a bit wary.

“Christ, he’s known about my tendencies since about twelve minutes after we met,” Stark explains with a laugh.  “He keeps telling me that one day I’m gonna find myself a nice boy or girl to settle down in a dungeon with, which is ridiculous in and of itself.  He about shit a brick when he found out my first and only relationship was with _Pepper_ of all people, the queen of love and commitment and vanilla sex, bless her heart.  He thought I’d cracked and gone limp-dicked.”  He laughs again, running the hand with the biro in it through his short, greying hair.  “But seriously, this is totally a conversation for another day, preferably with an obscene amount of whisky, and I don’t even _drink_ anymore.  Don’t want to bore you with my relationships, of all shapes and sizes, especially since we’re about to get to the fun stuff.”

Stephen swallows, licks his lips again, and tries to be thankful that at least the raging blush on his face and neck feels like it’s gone, even if his prick’s still half-stiff.  “Of course,” he says, his voice a bit too raspy for comfort.  “Please, do go on.  I’m sure we both have pressing things to attend to at some point.”

Stark shrugs.  “Meh, I’m pretty sure I’ve already missed, like, fourteen appointments, but I’m not really worried.  I own most of SI, and unless there’s another alien invasion or something, the board meetings can wait.  God knows I check out about three seconds after they start anyway, so I don’t know why they keep asking me to come to them when Pepper’s the brains of the business.  _So_ , moving on...”

He straightens out the contract in his hands, brown eyes glancing over the pages, and then starts yet again: “Next bit is domestic service.  You gave me a solid ‘depends’, so clarify if you wouldn’t mind.”

Stephen closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and then feels strong enough to say blankly, “Not in public, or around other people in general.  Otherwise, it’s fine.”

Stark nods, scribbles, and then questions, “Is that the general answer for the majority of your ‘depends’?  Just not around people or in public settings?”

“Which ones?  I’ll admit that you asked so many questions that a lot of what I said got lost in the moment.”  It’s difficult to say out loud, that he was so overcome by his need that he forgot everything that was asked, but Stark just hums again, flipping through the pages without a care.

“Your other ‘depends’, other than a few we’ll talk about in a second, consisted of: erotic dance, clothing chosen for you, puppy play, restricted rules of behaviour, role play, and tickling.  Same limits apply?” he asks, giving Stephen a curious look.

Stephen clears his throat and replies in a weak whisper, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Stark says, and begins writing and flipping through pages to repeat said writing.  When he’s finished, he smooths his hands along the top of the page and looks back up to Stephen, his expression serious.  “Next one is fear/scare play.  Elaborate?”

This one is actually relatively easy to explain, much easier than the other depraved things he has to admit he needs.  Stephen replies, “A lot of it is a judgement call on your part, considering you’ll know all of my limits, but if you think something is going to toe the line a bit too much and still want to try it anyway, I’d just appreciate if we could talk about it first.  Like intense strapping, anything related to gun play, long-term immobilisation...things like that.  Does that make sense?”

“Judgement call, got it,” Stark replies, and he sounds calm.  “I’m not going to be pulling out all the stops right from the get-go, so we’ll work up to the crazy shit that might reach edge play other than a few choice...activities.  And trust me, there’s going to be an _obscene_ amount of communication in this, because I’m a big believer in debriefs and consistent re-negotiation.  Cool?”

“Smart,” Stephen says without thinking, and then groans in exasperation when Stark grins.

“Ah, was that a compliment I heard?” he teases, reaching out to prod Stephen’s shoulder with the end of the biro.  Stephen lifts his hands to push Stark away, one hand automatically wrapping around Stark’s wrist for leverage and the other shoving at Stark’s solid chest, and he hears Stark let out a small noise in the back of his throat.  Stephen pauses, blinks, and then catches Stark’s eyes, fingers absently curling into Stark’s clothed solar plexus in surprise.  He loses his train of thought at the sight of Stark, mouth slightly open and his breathing just barely elevated, a light flush on his cheekbones and eyes positively _burning_ into Stephen’s own.

“You’re unmanageable,” Stephen finally breathes as audibly as he can, and hastily pulls his hands back into his lap.  “Please, continue.”

Stark watches him for a moment, arousal still burning in his eyes, but slowly the flush fades.  Stark shifts a bit, causing the hard bulge of Stark’s confined prick to become even more emphasised in the tight denim, and Stephen hears him inhale and exhale slowly at the likely-maddening friction.  Stephen traces the _obscenely_ large wet spot in Stark’s trousers with his eyes, taking in a silent breath through his nose to see if he can smell Stark’s precome (he can’t, to his disappointment).  When Stark speaks again, his tone is a bit thin, but still confident: “Fine, fine, next is foot worship, which goes hand-in-hand with all that other creepy-crawly foot stuff not involving shoes.  Well, mostly.”  Stephen wants to laugh but doesn’t, opting instead to listen carefully to Stark’s words so he doesn’t get distracted by the obvious arousal in Stark’s face and body language.  While he wants this conversation to be over so he can go about the rest of his life (until the next time), he also just wants to get all of the extra stuff out of the way so he can speak his mind about Stark...getting relief during these sessions.  He feels guilty enough that Stark _still_ hasn’t climaxed, and Stephen has the horrible feeling that he’s somehow made a mess of his words and conveyed in some way that he _doesn’t_ want Stark to orgasm, even though _clearly_ Stephen has no problem orgasming himself.  Which is just cruel, and Stephen can’t stomach the thought of not pleasing the man who’s absolutely going to be Stephen’s Dom for the foreseeable future.  He’s not _that_ selfish, contrary to popular belief.

Stark goes on, “You said shoe and boot worship was a ‘yes’ and gave me a ‘maybe’ for high heels, which _wow_ , where have you been all my life?”  Stark laughs, but it sounds choked and reedy before he goes on, “Hmm, _anyway_ , I need to know your limits on this.  Is it feet in general you don’t like?  Me touching your feet?  My feet touching _you_?  And how does that factor in with a scene?  Am I not allowed to use things on your feet?  What about—”

“Wow, okay, stop for a second so I can answer,” Stephen interrupts, holding his hands up.  Stark obligingly silences, and Stephen pauses for a second before he explains, “It’s not the end of the world if you touch me with them by accident, or if you touch mine by accident, and you can certainly do things to mine in a scene.  My limit is _actively_ touching them, or using my...using my _mouth_ on them, or _you_ using your mouth on—”

“Got it,” Stark says, interrupting Stephen this time.  “I don’t really care about feet one way or another, so it’s not like it’s a hardship to avoid them.  I’ll keep mine away from you, and I’ll tell you if I’m going to do something to yours, sound good?”

Stephen sighs in relief and replies, “Absolutely.”

“Alright.  So we’re almost done here with the miscellaneous stuff; just two more before we hit the big one.  Okay, so I don’t smoke any more, so even though you had a positive response to being used as an ashtray, it won’t be from cigarettes, cigars, or any other drug.  Matches, lighters, other types of fire play, sure, and maybe we can play with burning things _on_ you that’ll turn to ash, but otherwise, no smokes, cool?”

“That’s fine,” Stephen agrees.  He watches Stark belatedly fill in the bits about feet and then turn to the page about Stephen being used as an ashtray, scribbling in that box as well.

Then Stark says, “Piercings.  I don’t mind permanent or temporary, but I need locations where it’s acceptable.”

Stephen swallows thickly, prick twitching in his pyjama bottoms.  He can feel his own pooling precome in his bottoms, sticking the thin fabric to his thighs and prick, and it doesn’t help when he pictures having piercings (temporary or permanent, he’s not picky) up and down his prick, a leash tied to the loops so he can be dragged around on his knees.  “I—”  He stops, takes a deep breath, and tries again: “Everywhere but places you can see when I have my robes on.”

Stark’s throat ripples from his own hard swallow, his eyes almost black, and somehow Stephen knows that Stark’s thinking the exact same thing Stephen is.  It takes a truly heroic amount of willpower to keep the moan from breaking free, and he’s moderately distracted when Stark says gruffly, “You got it.  So, well, let’s get to the big one, shall we?”

Stephen takes a fortifying breath and replies softly, “Alright, Stark.”  He knows that this one is going to be almost unbearable, because he’s already _so hard_ and the only things left are D &H, toys, and orgasms, all tied together in one box of depraved insanity.  It’s easier to steel himself for the oncoming negotiation because his mind is still his own, due to the scene being so successful, but his arousal is still a blindingly distracting heat under his skin.

“D&H is what tipped you over,” Stark begins, voice low.  Stephen can’t tear his eyes away from Stark – his eyes so heated and dark-dark-dark – as Stark says, “Degradation and objectification can be tied into the overall humiliation, but this where it gets a bit nebulous.  You said sex and masturbation were hard limits for you but getting off is fine. On both sides,” Stark adds when Stephen gives a pointed glance to the obvious erection in Stark’s trousers.  “Like I said before, the whole separation of sex and Domination is new to me, so I need to know where the line is.  You had overwhelmingly enthusiastic reactions, both verbally and physically, to a huge list of things: watersports, cock rings, fisting, CBT, vibrators on sexual organs, food play, dilation, come play, speculums, double and triple penetration, sexual examinations, orgasm denial and control, et cetera et cetera.  What I don’t understand is how I’m supposed to separate that from sex and masturbation, or even touching your body to prep for toys.”

Stephen takes a long moment to steady his arousal and thoughts, taking in deep breaths, and he doesn’t realise that he’s closed his eyes until he opens them again at the sound of movement.  Stark’s looking at Stephen like he wants to eat him alive, and he has the palm of his hand pressing _hard_ against the straining, wet prick in his trousers.  Stephen feels his entire body shiver, and he gasps out a weak groan, vision blurry at the edges.  He’s horrified at his response as well as from the burgeoning need he can feel in his head and nerves, and _fuck_ , but he’s _still recovering_ from a scene – he can’t believe that the need is already starting to simmer in his psyche, because it should’ve been _months_ before it got to this level of feverish desperation, so soon after getting blessed relief.

 Stephen clears his throat and croaks, “I think that perhaps I wasn’t quite clear.  I don’t want…”  He trails off, because for a terrifying moment he _does_ want it, but he steels himself yet again and forces out, “I don’t want to give oral, and I don’t want penetration in the sense that there’s penile penetration.  I don’t…I wouldn’t mind if you told me to touch myself, and I’ll probably ask for it anyway so there’d be mixed messages, and you can certainly masturbate during a scene if you want; just don’t ask me to pull you off myself.  You can use toys and objects to penetrate me, but nothing else.  Does that make sense?”

Stark exhales loudly and says, “Makes complete sense.  What about me touching you?  Prep is minimal if not non-existent when a body is aroused, even anal, but it would—fuck, I would really prefer to finger you, particularly for sizable objects or for multiple toys.”

“Fuck,” Stephen whispers, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands digging into his upper thighs in a pathetic attempt to separate himself.  He hears Stark inhale, like he’s going to speak, but Stephen says breathlessly, “I’m alright.  Just...give me a minute.”

“Okay,” Stark says quietly.

The silence after that single word is thick and charged with tension.  Stephen can hear them both breathing, loud and distracting in the stillness, and he concentrates on that sound rather than the frantic thoughts in his head.  Christ, but Stephen has the nonsensical urge to jump on Stark, tear at his clothes, and _beg_ for fingers (or a hand, or _whatever_ ) before pulling out Stark’s prick, feeling it slide inside of him like a hot knife through butter.  He feels a surge of desire that is only outweighed by submission, and he wonders what it would be like, to feel that prick inside of him, gliding against his prostate and abusing his insides, to smell Stark’s sweat in his nose and taste the damp skin of Stark’s neck with his tongue.

 _Not helping!_ Stephen thinks frantically, desperately attempting to focus on dampening his arousal enough to where they can finish this conversation, if only so Stephen can rush to his private room at the Sanctum and use every single trick he can think of to (safely) get himself off, magic included.

He’s not sure how long the silence stretches before he finally feels strong enough to speak without it turning into begging and moaning, but eventually he opens his eyes.  His gaze sweeps for a split second over Stark – patient, coiled, heated, strong, _beautiful_ – and then he sets his stare on a blank space of wall so he can keep his wits about him.  “All of that is okay, Stark.  More than okay, and safe as well.  I appreciate you asking for clarification.”

Stark’s quiet for a moment, and then he murmurs, “Alright.  Can I ask for more clarification on other things?”

Even though Stephen’s psyche is dancing on the edge of foolishness, he replies, “Of course.”

Stark clears his throat, shifts his bodyweight, and out of the corner of his eye Stephen can see him pick the contract and biro back up from the bedspread.  He flips a few pages, scribbling long sentences underneath unknown but obviously related boxes, and then he stops, tapping the back-end of the biro against the paper.  “Right, so just a few more questions.  Am I...you said that giving me a hand- or blowjob is off the table, and that’s totally fine, but am I allowed to give those to you?  And what about coming _on_ you, or smearing it into your skin, after I’ve gotten myself off?  You left it open-ended.”

Stephen’s eyes snap back to Stark, incredulous and confused and not bothering to hide it; Stark’s question is bizarre, like he doesn’t comprehend how it works.  “I don’t understand the question,” Stephen says truthfully.  “It’s poor form to ask for something that you’re not willing to give.  I would’ve thought that that would be obvio—”

“I think that your perception is skewed,” Stark interjects, and there’s a curious hardness to his voice.  It’s not Dominating, nor is it angry, and Stephen can’t place the emotion that Stark must be feeling.  He doesn’t have to wonder for long though, because Stark asks, “Is that how it worked with your last Dominant?  Because that’s ridiculous if it’s true.”

Stephen frowns, and feels himself finally dissociating from the foggy, needy arousal in exchange for indignation (despite the intoxicating thought of Stark calling him filthy things as he comes on Stephen’s helpless, bound body).  “How my arrangement with Dorian went is none of your business.  I can’t agree to accept something from you that I’m not willing to give back, not in a sexual sense, so masturbation is fine for both of us, if you want and you allow me to.”

“All of this is sexual!” Stark exclaims, throwing the biro and contract to the side yet again but with more force than the times before, and Stephen freezes in complete confusion, genuinely not understanding why Stark’s so agitated about this simple concept.  “There might not be any fucking, but it’s still sexual if we’re talking about getting off!”  He runs his hands through his hair agitatedly, eyes heated and mouth tight, but then he sighs and slumps, giving Stephen a look that is both apologetic and earnest.  “Look, I shouldn’t have snapped, and yes, your past...whatever _is_ none of my business.  But you have to understand that this whole arrangement isn’t about _trading orgasms_ , Stephen – it’s about giving something integral in my very person to you and receiving something integral in _your_ very person in exchange.  If _you_ are comfortable with me giving it, and if _you_ want it, then I don’t care if it’s reciprocated, because _I_ want to give it to you.  _I_ want to reward good behaviour with a full body-bind and a hand wrapped around you, and _I_ want to reward good behaviour with a collar around your throat and your cock down mine.  I _want_ that.  I’ve been pulling myself off for fifty fucking years, so it is certainly no skin off my back to do it during these scenes as well.  I want you to get everything I can give you, because I want you centred and sane, and if it’s consensual, then why in the _fuck_ does it matter if you give me a pat on the back?  Shit, Stephen, just being able to _do_ this is more than enough reward for _me_ , because you’re _not_ the only one who’s been suffocating under this...this _need_ inside.”

He’s quiet after that, other than his harsh breathing, and Stephen has no idea what to do or say.  He’s not good at this part, at comforting and giving platitudes; he’s always been awkward at giving and accepting comfort outside of a primal, basic submission (and that’s a different thing entirely).  Therefore, Stephen remains silent as well, taking in the lines of Stark’s face – distressed, conflicted, handsome – and allowing his mind to dissect Stark’s impassioned speech.

It’s an odd thing, trying to work it out.  Dorian had been a professional, kind, inventive Dom, always respecting Stephen’s safewords and making sure that Stephen was safe during his most desperate moments, but there _had_ been a line.  Dorian had been very strict with sex, completely in line with his wife and sub’s request that he only partake in those acts with her.  Because of that, anything regarding penile or anal stimulation (on either side) had been a huge limit for both of them; in addition, for object insertion, exposure, or even on the rare occasion where he would use touch as the medium for CBT, Dorian had always used gloves to completely eliminate the possibility of coming into contact with Stephen’s sexual organs.  Stephen had wholeheartedly appreciated and supported Dorian’s fidelity to his wife and her limits, even during the brief flashes of _need-inside-choke-me-suck-you-fuck-me_ that he would have once in a blue moon during scenes.

Outside of his twenty-six years of submission and twenty-one years of only Dorian, the same exchange had occurred even in normal, vanilla situations with the few and occasional person, not to mention Christine.  Furthermore, the predators had demanded reciprocation to any actions of Domination with complete and total submission on Stephen’s part, and they had demanded reciprocation to any sexual organ contact, forcing it even when Stephen had balked – and he had balked _a lot_ , over and over and over again.

Even though Stephen has never told anyone these things before, not even Dorian, he knows that Stark won’t be satisfied with that generic abstract like Dorian had been.  Dorian had been supportive and comforting, but he had also been private and standoffish as well.  He had accepted Stephen’s stilted, broad explanation of his limits, of his traumas in the community, with no more than a shoulder to cry on as he gave Stephen the mental and physical respite he needed to function as a normal human being.  He had been a solid anchor, but it hadn’t gone any deeper than the epidermis, a stop-gap measure that never got too deep and invested.

Tony Stark, though, is a different breed of animal.  Stephen can’t even _comprehend_ the level of empathy and steadfastness that Stark displays on a day-to-day basis, because Stephen is just as private and standoffish as Dorian had been.  Stark, on the other hand, is not a man who is satisfied with surface-level inanities and explanations, and he’s an engineer at heart: willing to put the hard work in to be the best he can be, always learning and pushing boundaries, resolute in the idea that he can make a difference for the better, even whenever it goes tits up just to spite his constant, ongoing sacrifices.  Stephen can’t just say ‘ _it’s a limit because of reasons_ ’ because Stark can’t work with that alone – he respects limits, even in everyday life with the people around him, but he can’t learn and _improve_ if he doesn’t see the underlying issues.

Stark can’t give Stephen what he needs if he doesn’t understand how Stephen ticks, what triggers him, and what he can do to _push_ for the betterment of them both.

So Stephen closes his eyes and begins quietly, “I grew up in a small town in Nebraska.  My home life wasn’t great – my father demanded an unattainable perfection in both his family and himself and took out his disappointment and anger on my mother, my siblings, and myself with verbal and physical abuse – and I suppose that’s where a lot of my needs stem.  Being forced to be a certain way when I’m hardwired for the complete opposite, not to mention having to deal with the fear of my father finding out that I was inherently incapable of being naturally domineering, resulted in a lot of issues.  Putting on a face and persona every day just to keep your father from beating you or your family members caused me to split: this dominant person in everyday life, a persona that I have carried to this day for multiple reasons, and this base mentality that I was born with, something that I’ve fought against my entire life.  Because of that, I dabbled in the scene before leaving for pre-med, trying to get some sort of respite from the mental fractures, but the scenes were not nearly enough for sustainable relief; the few boys that were into it back in my hometown were just as naïve about it as I was, because there wasn’t a lot of literature to study back then and the internet wasn’t a thing yet.  It resulted in a lot of injuries and trauma in and of itself, on all sides, because we weren’t educated enough to make good decisions or safe choices.

“When I went to New York for pre-med, I was already in the middle of a mental breakdown from the fracturing.  I heard from a student of a kink party, and because I had dabbled in it back in Nebraska, I naïvely thought that it would be different, _better_ , that these professionals would be exactly what I needed.  I went and snagged a Dom, did what I know now to be incredibly mediocre negotiation, and then the scene started.  There were a lot of people watching, at least twenty, and for a while it was good, exactly what I needed, but then we got to the sex.  I’d already had some bad, painful experiences with sex, including one intestinal infection from tearing when I was sixteen – which was horrible, both because of the infection itself as well as my father trying to beat the unnatural homosexuality out of me – and that’s not even mentioning that I was in pre-med, studying what bodily fluids could do to a person.  He wanted sex, and I said no; he told me that I was hard, so my body wanted it.  As a med student, I know that that’s complete rubbish, but he guilted me into it, promising to wear a condom.  Except he didn’t.  I didn’t even realise that he had ignored my request until he came inside of me and it began leaking down my thighs.”

“Jesus,” Stark breathes, and Stephen feels Stark touch his knee through the blankets and pyjama bottoms, a non-invasive and soothing touch.  Even though Stephen can’t bring himself to look at Stark’s face, for fear of what pity or horror he might find in his eyes, he still leans into the touch, giving Stark the silent assurance that his touch is welcome.

He continues, “I spent the next two months terrified that I was going to end up with HIV and tested myself every week for another four months after that even though I knew I was clean.  I told myself that I would never do that again, that I could use the persona my father beat into me to excel in med school and smother the need inside me, but that only lasted until the next mental break.   That time I went to a dungeon, full of people employed to keep everything SSC, and found the first Dom that showed the slightest interest in me; even though I logically knew that I needed to be selective and get to know the guy first, I was in the middle of a breakdown, and going through finals where I had to be top of my class _or else_ , so I accepted his proposal.  The negotiation for that one was even more lacklustre than the first one, and I was desperate to not have an audience, which was a big mistake because there was no oversight.  He was brilliant until the sex came into it, and while he used a condom for penetration, he still made me give him oral bareback, and made me swallow even though I safeworded.  Kept telling me that I had to reciprocate, and that I wanted it.

“So the cycle repeated for two years: terror about getting an STI, deciding to kill the need entirely, having a few weeks to two months of blessed control of my own life, then having a breakdown and going back to a dungeon or party, then having safewords ignored or unheard because the Dom would get carried away or would forget the rules.  There were the occasional good ones, that accepted when I safeworded, but they were few and far between, and because of that the association between sex and Domination got so skewed in my head that I got to the point where I was under the delusion that if I wanted the relief, if I wanted those few sacred weeks of _clarity_ , I had to be raped to get it.  In a way I thought I deserved it, because I was so weak with this _defect_ of mine that I needed to be punished for submitting to another person, when every lesson I’ve ever learnt in my life tells me that I have to be the best, be _perfect_.  It got so bad that I wouldn’t even safeword and would just stomach through it, thinking that it was my comeuppance for this hateful feebleness, which meant that even the Doms that heeded safewords would take silence as consent due to their inability or unwillingness to read my body language in exchange for what sadistic tendencies they wanted to take out on me.  They’d take and take even when I was vomiting and screaming and genuinely terrified of them, and it took one very bad instance for it all to get better.”

Stephen can feel his entire body shaking with stress and residual trauma, and Stark’s close now.  Stephen’s almost surprised that Stark so near to him, with his hands massaging his spasming muscles, because most people try to give space, but Stephen feels like he can’t stop now, needing to get this all out after over twenty years of keeping it inside.  “Over a year after that first time, almost two, I got locked into something bad.  The Dom drugged me, and all I remember is fear and pain, not the acceptable kind but the kind that keeps you awake for weeks, choking with the memories, the kind that makes you want to just end it all and stop existing.  It was in a side room in a sketchy dungeon during the summer holiday, and Dorian passed by with his wife.  He said that he could tell that what was going on, that consent was absent, and he got arrested that night assaulting the guy.  Sent him to hospital from it and never felt a lick of regret despite the battery charge.  His wife, Mary, kept me calm, and they took me to a safe place.  Dorian kept me there for almost a month, making sure the tearing healed right, that the scars were manageable, and perhaps I didn’t trust him as much as I could’ve, in the end, because he _was_ a stranger even after twenty years, but I trusted him enough to accept his offer.  He made it with Mary in the room, and she was always in the room after, watching and occasionally participating if she wanted to.”

Stephen takes a moment to breathe, heart aching for Mary’s loss, because Dorian had been a great man and Dom for them both (and the other subs he had taken on in mercy, offering them the same option that Stephen himself had partaken in).  Stephen hadn’t known Dorian well outside of their scenes, and he had only visited them a handful of times a year if that, but Stephen wishes that he could thank him for what he did, for intervening when he hadn’t been required to and for taking him on when Dorian had been completely content with his personal status quo.  When he feels somewhat steady again, he continues, “It’s just that there were and _are_ too many people out there preying on people like me, people who push the need away until it’s too toxic and overpowering to live with and they’ll exchange rape for sanity, and I’ve...I’ve been assaulted too many times by sexual sadists to be comfortable associating _it_ with sex.  It’s just _safer_ that way.  That’s why Dorian was such a godsend; completely eliminating the tie to sex because of his devotion to his collared wife gave me the ability to just release it all, without worrying that I was going to be hurt in a way that wasn’t consensual.”

Then Stephen looks up at Stark, who’s pale and wide-eyed, and he says, “Perhaps my perception _is_ skewed, Stark, but surely you now understand _why_.  I’ve only really experienced two extremes, rape or complete disassociation, and out of the two I’m always going to choose disassociation.  And just...I trust you.  I honestly do.  To be perfectly frank, I don’t think I’ve trusted another person as much as I do you, because I gambled half the goddamn _universe_ that you would follow the right path to victory against Thanos, without having enough time to give you the path, and you didn’t let me down despite the unbelievable odds against you.  I know it sounds insane, because we’re not close in any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve lived millions of lives, Stark, and despite your numerous faults, you are constant and too self-sacrificing and—it’s not important.  What I’m trying to say is that even though I trust you beyond measure, and even though it’s been over twenty years since the last time, I’m still operating under the assumption that if you receive, you have to give in return.  Maybe that’s foolish, but I can’t help it, not after everything.”

Stephen sits in quiet anticipation of Stark’s pity and platitudes, but Stark just _looks_ at him, not with sympathy but with an expression Stephen can’t place.  The silence stretches, and Stephen wants to speak again just to break its oppressive weight, but then Stark says heavily, “I get it.  Trust me, I get it.  I hate it, and I wish it hadn’t happened to you, but I get it.  I’ve been there.”  Stephen’s eyes widen in complete shock, his heart stopping, but before he can even formulate a response or questions, Stark continues, “Since it’s therapy hour, and even though I don’t have whisky, people wonder why I don’t sleep around anymore and chalk it up to my responsibilities as Iron Man.  Maybe that has a lot to do with it or maybe it doesn’t, but honestly?  Rape as torture is a time-honoured tradition, and after the Ten Rings, the only person I’ve been with is Pepper and it took me forever to get to the point where I was comfortable with sex again.  So I get it.  I didn’t have to deal with _nearly_ the amount of shit you did—”

Stephen is utterly horrified and says hastily, “Jesus, Stark, it’s not a competit—”

“No, shut up, I’m not done speaking yet,” Stark demands, and Stephen’s mouth snaps closed, instinctively obeying the command.  It’s nothing to do with his submissive psyche and all to do with the fact that it looks like Stark’s ready to jump out of his skin, and Stephen understands _that_ if nothing else.  Stark goes on, “Look, I’m not going to go into my own baggage with consent, because I know you understand it and it’s _not_ a competition, so I’m just going to say that I get where you’re coming from.  I can tell you until I’m blue in the face that it wasn’t your fault, that it’s not healthy to continue denying yourself what you need sexually just because of a string of monsters when you were still a teenager, but it’s not my place and I haven’t experienced what you’ve been through.  I had a good relationship with sex before Afghanistan and I had Pepper after, that goddamn _beautiful_ woman, but you didn’t, so there’s no way in hell that I can tell you what you can and can’t handle, even twenty years after the fact.”

Stark sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, and then finishes, “So, this is what we’re going to do: I’m not going to touch you like that, and I’ll even wear copious amounts of protection if you’d prefer.  Fuck, I’ll wear the damn suit if you want me to.  I’m totally fine with all that.  And if you think about it for a long, long time and decide that it’s something you want to scratch at to get some power back from those pricks, then by all means, _ask for it_.  I promise that I won’t demand reciprocation by any stretch of the imagination, not unless you explicitly ask for it and we have one _hell_ of a negotiation talk spanning over at least a month, and I will _not_ abuse the trust you’ve given me.  If you are ever ready, don’t hesitate to ask for _anything_ you want to take back for yourself.  Anything you want, and I will bend over backwards to give it to you, as long as it’s SSC.  Do you understand?”

Stephen swallows, his throat tight, and answers hoarsely, “Yes.”

Stark’s entire body deflates and he laughs, a hesitant and almost self-conscious sound.  “Sorry,” he murmurs, picking back up the contract and beginning to scribble in various boxes, handwriting shaky but still readable.  “I’m a big believer in paying it forward,” he continues, not meeting Stephen’s eyes.  “I wasn’t thirteen years ago but I’m sure as hell am now.  Seen and done too much shit not to be.  I just...that’s what Pepper did when I was going the aftermath of my own issues and it was the kindest goddamn thing anyone’s ever done for me.  If I can do that for someone else, I will jump at the chance to do it.  But for now, that’s a hard limit, and _if_ it ever comes up again, which is not a requirement whatsoever, we’ll renegotiate, alright?”

“Yes,” Stephen says again, not knowing what else to say in response to Stark’s monologue.  He’s unbelievably relieved that Stark’s giving him the option, even if Stephen’s completely positive that he’ll never take Stark up on his offer, and he’s also rather...moved by it as well.  It’s clear that Stark’s passionate about the subject, and he can’t help but wonder why Stark and Pepper didn’t work out.  It’s a taboo subject that no one ever talks about, and Stephen doesn’t read the tabloids, because he’s much too busy to focus on rubbish and nothing in the tabloids is ever correct anyway.  It sounds like Stark still loves her, and Stephen can sympathise, because there’s still a part of him that loves Christine.

They’re both quiet for a long time, and when Stark finishes, he hands the contract over to Stephen.  “If you’re still willing to do this with me, then read over the chicken scratch and let me know if you need more clarification on anything or want to negotiate something else.  Once you’re satisfied and comfortable, just sign each page on the space provided, sign and date the last page, and then I’ll follow suit.  I’ll make you a copy and then you can get out of here before your fellow wizard-kind decide to vanish my building or something else equally dramatic.”  The wit falls flat but Stephen understands what Stark’s trying to accomplish: shoving a bit of (somewhat transparent) normalcy into the atmosphere after the whiplash of emotions they’ve both been through over the past twenty-one hours.

Stephen does as Stark asks, reading through a second time and still convinced at the brilliance of this arrangement.  Save one clarifying issue about sleep sacks – “Do you have a private location where we could do extended scenes where such objects would be utilised?” which is answered with “I’m the wealthiest man on the planet and you have a magic ring that creates portals to anywhere in the world instantly, and you’re asking if either one of us has the capability to do extended scenes?  Jesus, Stephen, the only thing that’ll get in the way of a scene is an alien invasion or supervillain out for blood, so ask _them_ to hold off on world domination if you’re worried about time restraints” – he has no issues with the material.  He signs each page with his normal shaky, undignified scrawl until he’s completely finished, handing it over with a small, timid, but ultimately eager quirk of his lips.  Stark smiles back at him, just as eagerly nervous and tiny, and then begins signing his slots underneath Stephen’s own messy signature with his loopy and practised one.

Stark stands up once he’s done, carrying the contract to a small, wireless scanner.  He’s quiet as he copies each page, front and back, and Stephen watches him just as quietly.  His compact, solid body moves with ease, and Stephen’s always been fascinated watching him, even from before this all came out – Stark moves efficiently, no movement and action without purpose, every iota of energy utilised with precise and intentional movements.  He reminds Stephen of a predator, always has, still and watching until the moment where he acts, taking care of what he needs to do without wasting time or momentum.  Even during a mundane activity (like copying a BDSM contract, apparently), he’s purposeful and exact, the quintessential leader.

The light from outside has faded into late twilight, and this time the illumination on his face is cool blues and greys, washing out the colour of his skin and making his eyes look black from a small distance.  His expression is calm and easy, and Stephen can’t help but feel pleased that he himself had been a factor to Stark’s current equilibrium.  It’s not a hard thing to acknowledge, because Stark has looked stretched thin and tense for years now, only relaxing either in private (though probably not, come to think of it) or with Pepper, Hogan, and the kid.

Stark finishes, binds the loose sheets together with a high-powered stapler, and then puts each contract into separate folders.  He leaves one on the desk and cradles the other one in his hands, turning back towards Stephen.  As he walks over he says, “Your copy.  Like I said, there will be constant renegotiation, and don’t hesitate to ask or demand anything.  You’re welcome to approach me at any time, though it’d be better for you to come more frequently now that the stress levels in your everyday life are higher now that you’re the wizard god or something, but please, come to me at your own pace.  I’ll always cut out time for you, whether you schedule it in advance or come at the drop of a hat, so to speak.  I won’t pressure you to come myself, so just...just let me know when you need it, okay?”

“Of course,” Stephen says softly, accepting the folder Stark gives him.

“Alright,” Stark answers, with another quirk of his lips.  “I’ll get out of here and give you some privacy.  Your clothes are in the cupboard and you can stay as long as you’d like.  No need to say goodbye, and I’ll see you when I see you.”

He begins walking towards the door backwards, and Stephen bites the corner of his lip, letting the flesh drag out from his teeth and highly aware when Stark’s eyes follow the movement.  “Goodbye, Stark,” Stephen says, unblinkingly and smoothly, not allowing a single emotion show on his face.  Just when Stark’s opened the door and stepped halfway out, he adds, “Thank you.”

Stark pauses, shoots Stephen a mischievous grin that seems more like his usual self and replies earnestly, “I’m pretty sure that goes both ways, Doc.”  A second later, his face and body disappears, and the door shuts with a final click, leaving Stephen blessedly and jarringly alone with his thoughts.

Stephen breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. It's over! Now all I have is the Harry/Draco Big Bang to complete and then I'll be stress-free!
> 
> I do hope that you enjoyed this fic. If you did, just know that this is the first story in an entire series in this 'verse. There will be whips and chains and crawling, oh my! And maybe, just maybe, there will be some feels (and sex) too. We'll see! *wink-wink*
> 
> Don't feel obligated to leave a comment, because comments are scary things, but kudos are appreciated! I adore you all!


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